Blightcross: A Novel

by C. A. Lang

  “They never told us that. All they did was allude to inbreeding or some other strange deviancy as the reason for waning Ehzeri power. Then there were the mystical explanations, and I think those were the most accepted theories.”

  He snorted. “God sees the vihs-draaf as wicked and unnecessary, just because of these machines?”

  Capra shrugged. “It didn’t make any sense to me either, but you don’t argue with the academy instructors.”

  Her knees were getting stiff, so she stood and went to the rickety iron balcony. Across the way stood another eight-storey building of the same rectilinear construction of red brick their own building displayed. This part of town could not have been very old, since Naartland itself had been established for barely a century, yet these buildings already gave her an impression of being worn and tired, like an adolescent who had never eaten well. She longed for the grand cathedrals and palaces of the Little Nations. She loved them all—that year she had spent hiding, with barely enough to eat once a day, still made her smile when she reminisced about it.

  There were arches, and ruins of aqueducts, and a vibrant new type of architecture to replace what had been destroyed during the war. The men in most of the towns she visited were affectionate, to say the least. The tea had more flavour, and she could just lie on the beach for much of the day and forget about the army, Ehzeri guerrillas, and the things she had willingly done that made her sick to remember.

  She rested her hand on the rail. She felt something greasy and pulled away. Her hand was covered in a black smear of grit.

  In the distance, there it was—the monolith. A clock tower, surrounded by bulbous buildings that reminded her of fungal growths on trees. Smokestacks rose from many of these bulbs, and in the waning light jets of flame spewing from them became visible.

  Was it a foundry? Just what was it that was attracting people from all over the main continent?

  It couldn’t be a foundry. Yahrein possessed the best foundries in the world, and a project this massive would have caused upset back on the continent. All she had heard during her forced holiday was that Naartland was a nation of upstarts who took great credit and pride for the resources that had been lying under their feet for billions of years.

  She had just assumed that they were talking about ore, but perhaps this was some new product...

  When the chemical odour returned on a hot breeze, she wrinkled her nose and went back inside.

  The two of them passed the rest of the night in silence. She assumed Dannac was performing a kind of Ehzeri meditation, and she busied herself with the newspaper. Since they could be stuck in Blightcross for months, even a year or more, she thought she had better improve her language skills.

  Although both Capra and Dannac were disciplined enough to go days without food and maintain their concentration, neither were in the mood for a fasting contest, and the next morning they ventured into the streets. There was an eatery just down the road from their building, but Capra insisted they find something else after stepping into the place’s sawdust floor.

  “As you wish, your majesty,” Dannac had told her when she refused to eat at the place.

  By now, Capra noticed that the city seemed to cycle through three or four strange odours, and that her throat felt as though she had swallowed a washboard. Beyond the low buildings, there was another industrial-looking monolith, but these she knew were foundries and smelters. There were parcels of unused land surrounding them, and there was a peculiar red tinge to the sand.

  “I have a method, you know,” she said, as they cleared the barren area and came upon a collection of tents and shacks and tables, all barely visible amid the crowd buzzing around them. Most of them were women in dun-coloured cloth that covered their faces. The few uncovered faces showed nasty red sores.

  There was some produce for sale, but most of the things for sale were things unfamiliar to Capra. She began to feel backward and stupid. She may have received a sophisticated, state-sponsored education, but did that matter out here? Was Blightcross also a centre for innovation?

  Or was it all just distraction?

  She saw trinkets stamped with the rose emblem that must have been the crest of Blightcross. Slogans—“strong and free”—on random items, like chamber pots and grain sifters. Symbols of the Tamarck deity called The Teacher, which was rapidly displacing its companions in the old pantheon and was responsible for much of the current disdain for vihs.

  “The Teacher helps those who help themselves,” Dannac said, and loud enough for anyone to hear. “Choice is the ultimate divinity.”

  Capra gave him a perplexed look. “You don’t agree?”

  “Choice for its own sake is vain. This is why my cousins and brothers kill your people.”

  “We are not a theocracy. We do what we do because of the war, not because of any spiritual high-ground.”

  “Well, I really don’t care about it either way. It is kind of strange how these people seem to be constantly reminding themselves of what they already think, though.”

  They moved faster through the market. Now she noticed the market’s neat rows of palms. For a single breath, the heat and palm trees whisked her back to the southern state of Heuvot. She had washed dishes there for three weeks, and again it was one of the best experiences she’d ever had, so for the moment she shut away the memory.

  They settled for a bistro tucked into a side street that was not clogged with carriages. Buildings here were made of granite, and there were worn hints of intricacies on many of them. Instead of hammers, machines, and hurrying workers, the air shimmered with music.

  Music and aromatics, like Parnas’ clove cheroots and brewing shalep. Some of the walls in the alley were marked with painted slogans and strange symbols, yet no derelicts clogged the way.

  It took a few seconds for Capra’s eyes to adjust to the dimness. Wood planks creaked with each step. Still, it reminded her of better times. A string quartet played at the back of the place, and the well-dressed patrons seemed to take this strange music as commonplace.

  “I feel uneasy here,” Dannac said.

  “You need to learn how to relax. This is the best place we’ve been since we left the continent. Now sit.”

  They took a table tucked into a corner. Dannac still didn’t look half as impressed as Capra felt. The menu alone... overpriced, yes, but real cuisine, like the kind she wanted to create. It even took three quarters of an hour to get their food—a pace she could get used to.

  At last, after having no complaints about the “extravagant” food, Dannac said, “There are men sitting here who have done nothing but read books for the last hour.”

  “Yes. I almost want to talk to the chef, because I have never made this particular—”

  A woman placed a thin palm on the table and leaned in. “I will be blunt. Are you two free for the day? I would like to interest you in some work.”

  At this, Dannac appeared less uncomfortable. “A day?”

  “Well, it will take the better part of this day to go over the assignment. It is quite complex, you see.”

  Capra eyed the woman warily. “What makes you think we are the sort who needs work?”

  The woman gestured at Capra’s tattered clothes. “Unless this is the latest style off the boat from Arjoan, you either need emergency treatment from one of these local dandies, or you’ve found yourself in circumstances that make available your... services.”

  Capra blinked for a moment. “Maybe we are not the types of people to offer you these... services, as you call them.”

  “Word gets around. Your little eviction of a certain korganum addicted magic wielder did impress your client.”

  That? It had been nothing to gloat about. And they had nearly been killed.

  “Go on,” Dannac said.

  This time, she didn’t want this woman’s first impression to be that of a subservient female. “Yes, please do.”

  “At the north end of Orvis Dunes, there is a book shop. I think we oug
ht to go there if we are to discuss business.”

  Capra exchanged a glance with Dannac and said, “Can you at least tell us the nature of your problem?”

  The woman invited herself to sit beside Dannac in their booth. “My name is Irea. I am a patroness around here.”

  Dannac grunted and raised an eyebrow.

  “I support many of the artists here in Orvis Dunes. I am a collector, you see.”

  The woman must have been around Capra’s age, yet sported dense curls and a diagonally-cut dress of rich colours Capra had only seen old royalty wear on the continent.

  “Artists? Is that what this street is?” Dannac asked. “The corner of the room where all of the workers have shoved the artists to keep them out of the way?” He chuckled.

  Irea made a condescending nod and looked to Capra. “You are one of those war resisters I heard about.”

  Capra suddenly felt naked, and snapped her hands to her neck. It was too late, but she still didn’t want anyone to see her tattoo. “I...”

  “I am not going to call you a coward and turn you in. This is Orvis Dunes, after all.”

  “I think I have misunderstood you...”

  Irea gestured to the quiet young men sitting in the other booths. “On this street, you would be hard put to find someone who didn’t support your choice.”

  “Oh. Is that so?”

  “Yes. And that is why I speak to you and not your boorish friend. We love what your country has done for women. I am sure it will spread in a few generations, even to a place like this.”

  “Wait, you love that they’re forcing us to fight?”

  “No, we like that your country has destroyed the gender barrier.”

  Capra shrugged. To her it was just an historical afterthought. It had always been that way.

  She heard Dannac sigh and guzzle his stein of small beer. “What do you need? I won’t take any more evictions. Not in this place, anyway.”

  “No, of course not. I actually am doing this on behalf of a friend of mine. A brilliant man...” Irea gazed into the dimness beyond their booth.

  Capra waited a few seconds, and when Irea failed to continue, she cleared her throat.

  “Yes. Well, his name is Noro Helverliss. Perhaps you have heard of him.”

  Both shook their heads.

  “One of the greatest minds produced in this century. He is on the leading edge of all things—the sciences, the arts—to the point of becoming the enemy of the oligarchy in both the government and academic circles.”

  Dannac yawned and pushed around the remaining food on his plate, but Capra became absorbed in the woman’s passionate tone. She leaned forward on her elbows, instantly reminded of tales from the Little Nations, of persecuted genius and doomed romance, escapes by sailing ship to unknown islands...

  “He is depressed, you see.”

  Like a bottle of fine wine dumped into a drain, Capra’s excitement became a confusion.

  “So,” Dannac said. “You want us to help him not be sad?” He laughed, shook his head, and stood.

  Capra clapped her hand on his shoulder, and he sat once more.

  “If you would let me finish,” Irea said, and from this point on acted as though there were a wall separating herself from Dannac. “Till Sevari has finally snapped the last of what few strings of sanity kept his mind together. He has stolen one of Noro’s paintings. The finest work of art ever created... all because it threatens this order he has created.”

  “What order? This is chaos.”

  “Come with me to meet the artist, at least. He is the most intelligent man you will ever meet.”

  The man sounded fascinating, but Capra still had to think of Alim and the army she had deserted, and the officials she needed to bribe for her freedom. “We won’t continue until you give us an idea of what you can afford.”

  It was as if Capra had lapsed into an obscure Valoii dialect nobody had heard in three centuries. Irea cocked her head and watched them with blank eyes. Finally, she said, “Money? Of course. Helverliss can afford any price you name.”

  Dannac looked sceptical. “Yet he somehow finds himself in need of this kind of help? Are all the rich here not involved in the oligarchy?”

  “Not all, sir. Helverliss has much support in certain continental circles. Most of his work sells well over there.”

  “But,” Capra said, “why does he stay here? If the continent is more accepting of his ideas, I hardly see why he should live in Naartland.”

  “That is another problem entirely. I am sure he will tell you these things if he believes them to be necessary. Would you at least come meet him? Why don’t I give you each some kind of... token to show my honesty.”

  “Such as?”

  Irea glanced at Capra’s chest. “Well, I was going to give you this amulet of mine—it is a one of a kind piece, but I see you already wear a much more unique piece and that my gift would only insult it.”

  “A hand-cannon.”

  Both women fell silent. Dannac was eased back on the bench, arms folded.

  “Get me one of these new devices, and we will talk.”

  Here he goes again. Another of his impossible conditions reserved for clients he wanted to exclude.

  Capra shot him a stern look. “No, I think that’s too much to ask. Some better lodging, or a new set of clothes would be more than—”

  Irea stood. “A hand-cannon? I had thought you would be more imaginative, my friend. I shall return in three-quarters of an hour with one hand-cannon, and appropriate attire for the lady.” With that, she flashed them a self-satisfied smirk and cantered out of the bistro.

  “I want to see what this is about,” Capra said, once Irea was gone. “Don’t discount it just yet.”

  “If you want to waste time, fine. But this woman is not going to find a hand-cannon. At least not in less than an hour.”

  He was right—even her former regiment had barely started to phase in the new weapons. The woman was rich, sure, but could Irea really find such a valuable and rare weapon on an hour’s notice?

  It didn’t matter. Whatever happened, Capra intended to pursue it. Dannac could do what he wanted—it wouldn’t be the first time they had split for a job or two. When later they met up and he brought more bruises than money with him, she’d have a good laugh at him.

  A half-hour passed. For the next fifteen minutes, Capra nursed another small beer. She slammed it on the table, empty, just as the clock on the wall struck the hour. There was still no sign of Irea.

  Dannac rose. “There are better jobs in a city like this. I’ll go find one.”

  “Suit yourself. I’m going to wait a bit longer.”

  He strode to the exit, but collided with a patron who was on the way in. It was Irea, and in her hand she held a large rosewood box, and clothes hung from her shoulder.

  “Sorry. I believe this is yours,” Irea said, and thrust the box into Dannac’s chest.

  Dannac gazed at the box incredulously. Capra just sat back and smiled.

  He returned to the table with the box.

  “Go ahead, open it,” Capra said.

  He slowly pried open the lid. Inside, lying on a bed of red velvet and smelling of new oil, was a peculiar contraption consisting of a wooden handle and precision-machined barrel, complete with etchings of elaborate vines.

  A hand-cannon.

  At last, Alim stood at the call of the receptionist. He flattened his hair and tugged out the wrinkles in his clothes. It had been a long two days.

  A guard, dressed in a blue double-breasted tunic with a wide leather strap across his shoulder, tapped a stud on the wall. The heavy, riveted metal doors creaked open. “Sevari will see you now.”

  Alim saluted the guard and strode in. Facing the window, Sevari stood behind a grey steel desk. There was a single green gas lamp on the desk. Strange symbols decorated the office, and Alim had the strange feeling of having walked into an Ehzeri’s tent.

  “Mr. Sevari,” Alim said.

&nbs
p; “How goes it in Mizkov?” Sevari continued to stare out the window.

  What was the protocol concerning this man? Alim didn’t even know Sevari’s official title. “It is going well. Your... eminence.”

  Sevari chuckled. “The people just call me their leader. I am not born into this, or appointed, after all. I do not deserve that kind of pedestal.”

  Somewhat disarmed by Sevari’s candour, Alim edged closer. “I need your help in apprehending a wanted enemy of the state.”

  “And an enemy of Mizkov is an enemy of mine. You will have my full cooperation.”

  “If you could just alert your police force—”

  Sevari spun around to face him. His face was hollow and bony, and a trail of dark spots dotted his receding hairline. “Police force? My good man, this is Blightcross. We have no police force.”

  “No police force? But I saw uniformed men guarding your public transit stations.”

  “Those are real soldiers, Alim. I’ve cut out the middlemen. Blightcross is going to be impenetrable, you just wait. No more will we need to rely on Tamarck for protection...”

  That, Alim remembered, had been one of Sevari’s strengths in gaining popular support. It reminded him of his own country, although something seemed different about this place. “Good. Then you will alert your army to my situation?”

  “Of course. In fact, I am going to give you a squad of your own to command in your search. I cannot just sit back while some agitator threatens production. These things must be dealt with swiftly.”

  Alim nodded.

  “The world will become envious of Blightcross very soon, friend. If word somehow gets out that my district harbours dissenters like this Capra Jorassian and her terrorist companion, it would ruin us.” Sevari dropped into his chair, and motioned for Alim to do the same. “The Combined Fuel Corporation of Blightcross sent me a dire warning against that kind of thing. The Industry Corporation is uneasy as well.”

  “I am not sure I understand, Leader.”