by Stacey Berg
“If you see him, tell him I was looking.”
“I will,” the boy promised. “I remember you helped our Lia when Lialy was born. We’ll always be grateful.” The baby gave Echo a wide one-toothed smile, as if it could understand. She made her mouth shape a curve in response. Perhaps the baby would think it was real.
The boy bit his lip. “You sure he’s not in trouble?”
“I need his help.”
He bounced the infant up and down. “There is this one place . . .”
The remains of these dead buildings stood taller than any habitation in the city. Though constructed by men, they seemed to have grown themselves, stone and metal trees stretching towards the sun like the forest in the Preserve. Before the Fall, the priests said, this had been the center of the city; but it had been all but abandoned for hundreds of annuals. Only those too unfit to make their way in the claves, like the vagrants who lived on the city’s edge, lived here now; and only the occasional young cityen or hunter bent on exploration visited.
When this building had collapsed in on itself, the debris had made a kind of ladder inside the shaft that cored the tower. Echo wedged herself up level by level, her way lit by daylight sifting in where doors had fallen away. It was not a difficult climb for a hunter, except for the pain in her ankle; for a cityen it would be challenging but doable for the young and agile. Indeed, she saw the signs of passages both old and recent, candle stubs stuck on flat spots, rusted containers that had probably held the adventurers’ food or water.
Or ferm. Her nose wrinkled at the yeasty scent gone sour. That meant it had been spilled recently, but not just now. There was light coming from above, dim, artificial. She moved more cautiously, in case she was surprising someone other than Exey. After another ten feet of climb, she came to an opening. The sill was covered with trails of dripped wax where people had set their candles down to boost themselves through. A lightstick, still glowing, was wedged into a crevice.
She pulled herself up and over in one movement, conscious that it left her framed in the doorway. The vestibule the shaft opened into was bisected by a hall. One end was blocked, but the other was clear. The smell of ferm was stronger in that direction, and so was the light. She padded that way silently.
The light, and smell, were coming from a room at the end of the hall, near the building’s outer shell. She heard something now too, a faint scratching noise. Crouching beside the door, she paused a moment to let her eyes adjust to the brightness, then snaked a look. Then, with a sigh, she rose and rapped on the doorframe to announce herself.
Exey fell backwards out of his squat, knocking over the small jar sitting next to him. The liquid inside splashed across the floor, adding to the stink. He snatched up the print he had been working on before the spreading puddle of ferm could reach it. The scratching sound had been his stylus over the surface. The mineral scent of ink pierced the sourness of the ferm. It brought a sharp stroke of memory: Lia, taking her careful notes on blank print that Exey had made, while Echo sat across the table watching her.
“Saints!” Exey said, glaring at her. “Can you fly, on top of everything else?”
She plucked the sheet from his fingers. “What are you working on up here?” The print was covered with all manner of sketching: a diagram of something that looked like the grain mill; a simple lock and key; fine lines woven into an oval like the clasp he wore in his hair, with a cable leading from one end. The pigment still gleamed where he’d been adding to the lock and key. Exey snatched the print back, fanning it through the air to dry the ink.
“Just an idea.” He gestured at the open square in the wall. “Sometimes I get them from the view.” Despite the ferm his words were clear, unslurred.
She stalked to the opening. Wind tugged at her hair. Below, the main road led from the Church doors to the city, an avenue among the buildings that had long since fallen to ruin. The forcewall, invisible even to her from this distance, curved all the way around the city, beyond the inhabited edges. East, the sludgy remains of the river reflected flat black, like a streak of dried blood.
But her eyes, as always, were drawn to the west, where the dish and panels atop the Church spire flashed in the sun. She had flown higher in aircars, of course, but never stood anchored at a height that gave her such a viewpoint. The streets and buildings, alleyways and ruins wove a regular design, filigreed light and shadow like the patterns on the priests’ boards. Perhaps this was how the Saint saw the city, everything known to her at once. A yearning pierced Echo’s heart. Do you see me?
Exey came up behind her. She turned enough that a stumble, or push, would not send her through the gap. He didn’t appear to notice. The gold bauble in his hair sparked like a bit of spire broken off. “I don’t suppose you chased me here to see where I get my inspiration.”
“The priests need you.”
“Can you people not just leave me alone? You’ve rousted my customers, and half the city probably thinks I’m spying for the Church. Not to mention—” Exey stopped himself, but Echo knew what he had been about to say. He ducked his head to hide his expression. The paper crumpled in his fist. “Would I have to see her?”
She loomed over him, and now he had to think about somebody getting pushed. “If you can help her, you will.”
He stared at her a moment more, then whirled with a violent jerk of his arm to fling the wadded paper through the gap. The wind caught it and carried it up, out of sight.
She didn’t have time for his anger, or his fear. She had already delayed enough in her weakness. “Do you still have that charge splitter?”
“The one your lovely friend broke into a hundred pieces? I melted them for scrap.”
She didn’t have time for his games, either. “I know you. You did not make only the one.”
He laughed shortly. “Of course not.”
Back in his shop, he pulled open a drawer. Echo tensed, ready to strike, but it wasn’t a weapon he withdrew, only a flat metal box with a tangle of wire connectors at each end. “This is the new improved version. Divides the charges, directs them in any combination you want. Very handy if you choose not to depend on the Church for all your power. Though certainly there’s plenty to go around these days. The new Saint . . .” Voice trailing off, he lowered his gaze again.
“I need that splitter, Exey. She does. Right now.”
His head jerked up. “What for?”
“I’ll explain as we go.” She thought she might have to force him, but he was grabbing his satchel already, curiosity lightening the shadow in his eyes. He packed the charge splitter, then, after a moment’s swift thought, rolled a selection of delicate tools into a cloth.
At the top of the stairs he made to lock the door, then gave up when he saw the damage.
“It holds against most people other than you. Now tell me why you’re abducting me, and why Lia needs a charge splitter.”
He understood better than she did. By the time they arrived at the Church, he had questioned her as thoroughly as a priest, and it was concentration, not anger, that drew his brows together. He paused on the Church steps, head tilted back to take in the doors soaring three time his height, great planks with worked-metal bindings and a panel where the handle should be. “I’ve never been inside,” he said. He raised a hand tentatively towards the panel.
“It’s set only to open to hunters.” She laid a palm on the warm metal. The doors could tell more than hunter from cityen, a great deal more. They could choose not to react at all, or to kill with a single charge. Like everything else in the city, some fragment of the Saint’s consciousness controlled them, choosing. Judging.
She remembered Lia’s lips, warm against her palm. Her fist clenched.
The massive door swung open onto darkness. “Exey. Don’t call her Lia. Not here.”
Chapter 16
Exey was so shocked to find himself face to face with the stranger from beyond the city that he actually fell silent for a moment before bursting into a stream o
f interrogatives that made Khyn laugh. Dalto was nearly as surprised, though he controlled it better. His eyes grew wide at the sight of the charge splitter, and the cityen who had created it, but he only shook his head. “If a stranger from somewhere we didn’t even know existed until a few days ago can help, why not a cityen of our own? And I suppose I should be used to the strange things Echo brings us . . .”
Ignoring the curious priests, Echo sought a place out of the way by the altar. Exey’s presence in the sanctuary unsettled her, and not only because he was a cityen. He must suffer the same confusion she had, seeing Lia where there could only be the Saint. After one quickly averted glance, he did not look toward the altar again. But Echo sat by the Saint, counting her breath silently, seeking the calm the Saint deserved of her. Before she could achieve it, Gem interrupted with a summons.
“Nyree wishes to see you. She is at the training ground.”
“I have no wish to see her.”
The line appeared between Gem’s brows. “It is not advantageous to oppose her at every opportunity.”
“If you seek some advantage with Nyree that is your affair, but I have no such ambition. I know my place.”
“I do not doubt that.” Gem’s eyes rested a moment on the Saint. “Nyree is waiting.”
The training ground was at the farthest edge of the Church compound, where the hunters’ activities would not disturb, or endanger, the nuns and priests. The modeled ruins of a city block had been assembled there to allow the practice of maneuvers; both buildings and practice seemed a paltry imitation now that hunters had faced real fighting during the rebellion. Beyond the ruins lay an expanse of flat ground, a rare area with no evidence of previous construction. It was clear enough what it had been; beneath the accumulated dust lay many polished stone panels, traces of letters and numbers still visible on some; and the occasional bone still worked its way to the surface. Nyree faced the expanse from atop a broken rock wall, shading her eyes to watch a group of juveniles whom Gem went to join. “Why did you bring the fabricator to the Church?”
“Dalto sought his expertise.” The juveniles were working in groups to drag the heavy stone blocks into a pile that stood waist high and as wide as a hunter’s outstretched arms. Each time a panel fell on top of the pile there was a dull, hollow thud, like a giant heart beating. Not far beyond, another group was setting up tripods made of recovered scraps of metal, legs spread wide at the bottom, the tops bound together with wire wrappings. Gem affixed something to the top of the first tripod, attached a long wire to it, and motioned the juveniles behind her. The object was too small for Echo to make out from here, but a sense of foreboding overtook her.
Nyree said, “A trade shop on the edge of North was broken into last night. The trader was sleeping in the back and heard the noise. When he came out to investigate, he was fired upon by a man with a projectile weapon. He was not injured, and the man escaped. Marin was on patrol; she found the discarded weapon nearby.” She jumped lightly from her perch. “The fabricator is known to sympathize with the Ward.”
“The rebellion is over, Nyree.”
“Tell that to the cityens who have been attacked.”
“The city has never been altogether safe. There are not enough of us to patrol every alley, and the fringes—”
“I am not concerned about random crimes. Projectile weapons are different. They made cityens”—Nyree’s lips puckered as if the word tasted sour—“a threat to the Church. That threat originated in the Ward. I will not forget. The Church will not.”
“I know what happened. I was there.”
“With the Wardmen.”
Anger rose in a wave, like the heat reflecting from the rock they stood on. “I went where the Patri sent me.”
“Sent you? The Patri cast you out for doubting him. What service was that?”
“I returned with the Saint. Her ascension ended the rebellion. That danger is past, Nyree. If you cannot see that, you will not be able to see whatever new arises.”
“I see trouble enough.” Nyree’s eyes bored into her. “Much of what is new comes back to you, one way or another. Cityens with weapons more powerful than hunters have. An excommunicated hunter who never meant to return and ran again before anyone had the sense to stop her, who brings a stranger to the Church, and who knows how many other enemies on her tail. A Saint claimed by a clave as their own. By the Ward.”
“It is blasphemy to question the Saint, Nyree. After everything she—” Echo bit off the words before she revealed too much. If she gave Nyree the slightest reason to suspect her fears, her hopes— “Blasphemy.”
A sharp crack split the air, followed by an explosion of splinters from the pile of stones the juveniles had made. Echo ducked into the cover of the broken wall, searching wildly for an assailant, before she realized that neither Nyree nor the hunters across the way had moved. A thread of smoke rose from one of the objects Gem had affixed to the tripods. The young hunter studied the weapon closely. Echo straightened from her defensive crouch, refusing to acknowledge the juveniles’ poorly disguised amusement.
Nyree’s lips thinned as she drew them back in something not at all a smile. “It is not the Saint I question.”
The wave of anger threatened to sweep Echo over the cliff. “Take your doubts to the Patri, if you have evidence for them. Otherwise let me be.” Then she turned on her heel and left Nyree there, watching the young hunters steal stones from the dead.
The confrontation with Nyree left Echo even more unsettled. For all their differences, their worries about the cityens, the weapons, had too much in common. Hurry, she silently urged Exey and the priests as they worked to connect the charge splitter. Every moment the Saint was vulnerable felt like a step closer to a cliff’s edge in the dark. But the manipulations in the sanctuary made Echo anxious too. “Could the charge splitter harm the Sai—the systems?” she asked Khyn as the Preserver studied the panels.
“It’s pretty primitive.” Khyn grimaced. “About like hitting someone over the head to help them sleep. At least it should let the priests override whatever power flows from the Saint’s side of the circuit. It’s a good thing. Surges like that would cook a steward’s brain. The Saint seems to be okay so far, but I wouldn’t count on it staying that way if the splitter doesn’t work.”
Echo sat by the altar as if that would somehow help. The instinct was foolish; a hunter could only protect against outward dangers, and those were not what the Saint faced. She could not help wishing that it was Stigir, with his greater understanding, who oversaw the installation. She thought again about the distance to the Preserve, the chances that she could find it again, and what she would do to persuade the Patri, if it came to that . . .
Marin’s report at the noon meal did nothing to ease her mind. A Norther’s habitation had been burned by a Wardman whose daughter had been wooed then spurned; and the Norther and his friends had chased the arsonist almost all the way to the Ward. Fortunately a hunter patrol had intervened in time to prevent another murder. “I don’t know why they were all so angry,” Marin said. “The young woman will have a child, which is a desirable outcome for the city as a whole; and the Church will compensate the Norther for the loss of his habitation.”
“You forget your lessons,” Indine said, taking a portion of greens and arranging them so the stems lined up in parallel across her plate. “The citizens are sensitive to slights, and they hold grudges. Not like hunters.”
“That was the reason for the rebellion,” Brit concurred. “They were so angry about the nun tithe.”
“Not only the tithe,” Gem said. “Some of them had visions of a greater change.”
“That is not a cityen’s business,” Indine declared.
Marin passed the platter of greens to Echo. “Finish these, you like them better than I do.” Her frown was not for the food. “Cityens have some strong points. They’re clever and adaptable; their problem-solving is often quite creative. It is unfortunate that at this moment they are spe
nding so much energy on their disagreements. Do the Preservers have similar difficulties?” she asked Khyn.
Khyn’s troubled frown matched Marin’s. “Not exactly. Our population is so much smaller, and we’re not divided like you into different groups . . . Of course we don’t always get along. That’s how I ended up here. With some help from Echo of course. But attacking each other, burning habitations—” Khyn shuddered. “Exey told me how awful it was during your rebellion. I can’t even imagine. Preservers don’t settle their differences like that.”
Perhaps not with each other, Echo thought, but they had sent the vektere for her that last day.
The young hunter’s gaze was far away. “It is difficult to envision a place so peaceful.”
“Marin’s not so bad when Nyree’s not around,” Khyn said later. “She kind of reminds me of Taavi.”
Echo nodded without listening, her thoughts still occupied by Marin’s report. If the cityens went too far, the Patri would have no choice but to teach a lesson no one would soon forget. And the hunters were arming themselves now as the rebels had done. It would not only be a matter of stunners and projtrodes. Even small disruptions in the city had strained the old Saint, but she had already been failing. Surely this Saint was too strong to be affected by such things. But if real violence broke out . . .
“Do you have a few minutes? Maybe we could go to that little grove.” Something in Khyn’s tone captured Echo’s full attention.
The Preserver paced beneath the small trees, tugging occasionally at twigs. Echo drew a slow breath, trying to pick up the scent of pomme, but the priests had been back through; there were no fruits at all remaining on the limbs. The trees would not bear again until after the vernal rains. At least there was still shade, though the wind had thinned the leaves. “I don’t know how you can stand this heat all the time,” Khyn said.