by C. A. Lang
“I want out of here. Sevari has barred me from leaving, and not even the human traffickers here will have anything to do with me, no matter how much I offer them.”
Dannac sounded intrigued, for once. “Where would you like to go?”
“Anywhere. Even the shores of Tamarck. At least I could pass through there before anyone realized who I was. The Bhagovan Republic might appreciate what I have to offer.”
At this, Irea appeared uneasy, but she said nothing.
“That is one place we won’t be going,” Dannac said. Capra just shrugged—she did not care either way.
“Whatever. Anywhere but here. I had thought the climate here could change, that at least the academics in Naartland would be willing to discuss things with me, but their business is only to buttress Sevari’s policies with their own rationalizations. I need to leave, and I assume that you two will be leaving once this is all over as well.”
“That would be correct,” Capra said. “So, maybe a better idea would be to skip the painting and pay us for getting you out of here.”
“No.” Helverliss scrunched his face and gritted his teeth, then returned to his laconic state. “I have to have that one painting. Everything else the man can keep—though if there were an opportunity to recover it I would gladly take it—but you must retrieve that piece. I am willing to pay you ten-thousand pistres. In gold, if you prefer.”
Dannac’s head dropped slightly, and the two stared at each other, both slack-jawed. Ten-thousand was more than they had made in an entire year of work.
So many works, and not enough hours in each day to work them. Vasi gulped the last of her tea and nearly squashed a frail scroll she had yet to copy with the mug. Once her heart calmed again, she looked back to the notebook in front of her. The more she studied, the more it felt as though she knew this Helverliss personally, and he was not the kind of man she would befriend. One of these volumes must hold the secret to his technique. Perhaps he had written the formulae in code.
... and it is my contention that the great Yahrein philosopher had his head on backwards. The so-called “worldspirit” of his did not come out of nothing and start shoving us mere humans around to fulfil its bizarre desires. The totality he spoke of arises out of the material world we find ourselves in, and that is what moves society. From the ground up, not the other way around, and in an opposition-based process of tension and release...
She squinted and rubbed her temples. Thousands of pages, hundreds of hours, all without uncovering a single passage relating to Akhli and the Shadows. If she had to read another thousand pages of this, she wondered if her head might explode.
Sitting around too long, that was the trouble. She needed stimulation, so she left her lab, locked it dutifully, and began to wander through the clock tower. Her head swam with a sick ache around her eyes—one that reminded her of a fever but came from staring at books for hours on end. That was the one good part about her first job as a labourer in the refinery. At least she moved, and used her skills regularly for practical, important tasks.
Around the corner was a small balcony. She stepped onto it, and hopped onto the stone wall to lie on the narrow strip. She knew she wouldn’t fall, and it made her feel as though she were hovering above the city. The whole district sprawled below, and it was the kind of stimulation that kicked her thoughts back into their usual rhythm.
A strange thrill raced through her. What if she jumped? Imagine flying over the city, whether by vihs or some other means. Like the flying boats, only without tons of iron between herself and the air. Like an archon...
Damn, there it was again. The archon returning to her, taking liberties as though things had never changed. Go away. I made my decision long ago. Never again.
But she should have known that it took more than words to banish the archon from her mind. Now it flew in the moonlight, as they were always portrayed. Wings fully spread. Staring into her, judging, even mocking. Divine but flawed tricksters, playing with the material plane as though it were a toy... what did it want from her? But the image became buried in her drowsiness, leaving her with half-formed thoughts and questions.
An hour later, Vasi awoke drenched with sweat and sun-seared eyes. Beneath those sensations a strange inspiration nagged her, probably brought on by the dream.
Archon, archon... damn you, go away. I have work to do.
And somehow she dragged from her sleep the important thoughts she sensed, like plucking a drowning child from the water. What if she wove a visual working of vihs into the canvas? If her power could merge with the painting, it might expose some clue she had missed. A written invocation, or a burn mark, or anything that might point to how this strange object worked.
She dashed through the halls, feet cooled by the smooth granite, to find the special vault where Sevari stored his most prized pieces. She worked the locks with little more than a thought and found the mysterious painting encased in glass. The rest of the displays were artifacts Sevari wouldn’t entrust even her with—an enchanted gauntlet, one of her people’s spears said to have been carried by the only man to have battled one of the fire giants before they had disappeared, and a host of other legendary items.
Again it drew her in, demanded that she approach it and acknowledge its existence. She drifted towards it, falling into a trance. Then came the whispering chatter, the voices urging her forward, but uttering no word she recognized. It chilled her and excited her, the tingle in her limbs both from anticipation and fright.
There it hung, complete with its strange gaze. Black.
Each time she looked at it, she tried to imagine that the shadow men, or the giants, or even Akhli, somehow appeared in that evenly-painted canvas. But no matter how hard she squinted, cocked her head, or crossed her eyes, nothing became visible. All she gleaned from the piece was utter blackness.
Maybe that was enough. The way it spoke, the way it grabbed one by the throat and—
Before she could begin to analyze the painting further, the entrance rattled and two men walked in. She spun round and found Sevari striding in, flanked by a handsome young man with—
Never mind. He was not handsome, but a monster. A tattooed monster, one of the Valoii murderers.
“Vasi,” Sevari said. “Having any luck?”
She lowered her head. “I was just going to analyze the painting’s vihs vibrations again. I had an idea...”
“Very good. Now, this is Alim, and he’s come to help us.”
She looked up at them. “Help us?”
Sevari spoke to Alim for a few seconds, low enough that Vasi could not hear. “There is a rogue Valoii in this town. A... well, a murderer.”
Vasi pondered this for a moment. At least he admitted there was a threat to his workers, for once.
“And, this fine Valoii here will be helping me track her down so that we may bring her to justice. Do you see?”
“I understand, Leader.”
Sevari pulled her closer, put his arm around her. “The others look up to you. You are successful in their eyes. Some are becoming nervous about the deaths.”
Only now did the magnitude of her carelessness hit her: how idiotic was walking around the dark halls alone, without a single care other than her banal work? Then again, with the inexplicable return of the archon, perhaps she’d have protection. More protection than she wanted.
“And so, you can see that there is nothing to worry about. Many of the deaths have been ruled as accidental, and if there is a murderer, you can bet that it is this rogue Valoii that our friend here will be apprehending within the next few days. He is hot on her trail, you see. If this murderer aims to harm any of you here, rest assured that I will protect you.”
She thought of the boy she had known who had just been found with a neat hole in his forehead. “But Leader—”
“Now, does that really sound like something to worry about?”
“I—”
“Does it not make more sense that perhaps this hysteria might b
e causing workers to be lax in their safety practices? Do you recall how dangerous the refinery is?”
She bowed and reminded herself not to tell him exactly why the refinery was dangerous, because he’d only see her pointing out his lax standards as an insult. But it was Alim who commanded most of her attention. Blood raced in her ears, and she found her fists clenched at her sides.
Murderer.
“Answer me, Vasi!”
She met Sevari’s eyes. “Sir?”
“I asked you to spread this calming message among your peers. I cannot have them scared of prowlers and knife attacks and so on. Alim here is more than capable of taking care of this rogue Valoii, though I still would urge you to doubt that she is really prowling around this refinery and killing its workers. It is a bit absurd, isn’t it?”
Before she could answer, they began to amble around the room. Sevari gave a running narrative of each exhibit—the tourist versions, anyway. She knew these objects better than she knew her own family these days, and there was more to them than romantic tales.
With the Valoii murderer and Sevari gone, she went back to the painting. Only now, she saw nothing but a field of black set in a minimalist frame. Her thought had washed away under Sevari’s nattering like lines on the beach erased by lapping waves.
Murderer. That’s what had distracted her. She didn’t believe Sevari’s smooth evasions. It was always the same, and only the issues changed. First it had been working hours—of course he had convinced them to agree with him by trying to paint them all as lazy and unwilling to do their part. Since most of the immigrants here had dealt with those accusations their entire lives, they had quickly stopped their criticism. Then there was the issue of ventilation in certain areas, and Sevari’s excuse had been that in such tough post-war times, all had to make little sacrifices to rebuild society, and in turn, they had all felt bad for speaking up about the growths in their lungs.
This was more of the same. The only thing that made her wonder was Alim. Was there really a Valoii soldier hiding in this city? One of those war criminals who had done something so deplorable that even the Valoii generals could not let it go unpunished? It would not be the first time. The only thing worse than a Valoii soldier was a rogue one. Even the generals had limits to their genocidal practices.
She left the room and slipped into the clock tower’s halls again. Every few steps she glanced past her shoulder.
And here, she realized that Rovan staying here, waiting to be murdered or killed in an accident was hardly worth it.
Some things were more valuable than money. She alone could make enough to support the family. Rovan’s wage was nothing compared to hers, so what was the point in him risking his life in the refinery? Hadn’t it been selfish to bring him along? Even if the kid had gotten himself mixed up with a resistance cell, he’d never know the terrors Vasi had lived through.
Sometimes, being born without any vihs capacity was a blessing.
She stopped at one of the immense windows of stained glass. In front of her loomed a colourful depiction of a winged boy holding a sword. Below him were the black pits in which the fire giants and the shadow men had perished. Tamish versions of ancient texts. She would never understand how they could deify this Akhli character.
Idiots.
And it was these same idiots who couldn’t even read sacred texts properly who were charged with keeping Rovan safe.
Not worth it.
She hurried to the ground floor. Through the security checkpoint, three sealed bulkheads, and into the refinery. She had forgotten the thick air, the constant noise, the confusing array of machines and pipe. A few minutes into her trek, her nostrils filled with a greasy film.
When she could not find Rovan at his usual station, she pulled aside his supervisor. “Where is he?”
The man spat a black wad over the edge of the catwalk and further smeared the grease on his face with his hand. “What’s it to you?”
“I am his sister. I have to speak with him. It is urgent.” What if this man were the killer? She let go of him and put a few steps of distance between them.
He sneered, hardly enough for her to notice, but his tone filled in the rest. “Oh, yes, it’s you. They reassigned him.” The man grumbled to himself and spat again. “Only just started getting things right, and now Sevari is so impressed, he’s got Rovan on one of his little projects. Bloody sheepfucker ought to make a new project out of fixing his pit-rotted pipelines. Golden Ram be damned, there’s a break every day in the line west of here.”
She froze. “Little projects.”
“Aw yeh, you know, his spooky studies. Bastard. He’s a bloody bastard.” The man lowered his goggles and said, “But, ah, don’t tell him I said that, love.” He then turned back to the valve he was fixing.
She leaned against a guardrail, put her hands to her ears and tried to work out why Rovan would be reassigned. But in this place, complex thoughts often melted under the aural assault of the refinery.
Damn it—good luck convincing Rovan to return home now. He wanted gold rings and a mechanical carriage loaded with women to buy and sell, and with this promotion the kid would catch a glimpse of enough money to obtain it. Then he would never leave, no matter how crazy or unsafe the place became. He might even join Sevari’s political party.
Still, what could Rovan offer to them? Was he hiding latent skills? Perhaps her family possessed more power than they had thought. Technically possible, though she doubted it. Damn, if her family caught wind of Rovan coming into power, they’d do the same thing to him as they had to her. Perhaps this was why her mind kept showing her the archon. It could be a warning, but for Rovan’s sake.
She hurried into one of the elevators, and emerged back in the cool darkness of the clock tower. Once she returned to her pile of Helverliss’ works, her shoulders dropped and the piles of books and sculptures and paintings loomed like an unclimbable peak.
Bloody distractions. The greatest challenge of her life, this strange painting, and it had to be mired by contingencies and distraction. She could unlock its secrets, she knew she could. Given enough time, anyway...
Rovan was the reason for doing this mindless research. She did it so that they would all have something for the future. Her mind flickered with images of Rovan lying in a pool of blood, barely visible to the rest of the staff. A bleeding ghost.
Perhaps someone in the city would have heard something about this killer. Most of the people involved with the city’s underbelly would never cooperate with Sevari. Only an Ehzeri could stand a chance at coaxing information from the underclass. And besides, she had stayed locked in this tower for how long, three months? All without a single trip into town. There were old friends to speak with, pubs crawling with bits of questionable facts, and of course, most of the newspapers never made it into the refinery. Were there others dying in the streets, or did the killer only strike at the refinery?
What if she could find the answer? If she couldn’t unlock Noro Helverliss’ painting at the moment, she could at least find this killer, since all Sevari would do was cover it up and allow it to continue.
“We should not be staying at that shop, Capra. If the law here has already raided his place, they will come again.”
Capra led him around the market, gazed at the gimcracks and utensils for sale. “I see what you mean, but I almost think a good night’s sleep is worth it.” She grinned at him.
“Spoiled brat.”
She rolled her eyes at him. “Well, I’m no good to you tired. Somehow I doubt you were having a good time in that ghetto we slept in.”
As she predicted, he didn’t argue. With the coins Helverliss had provided weighing her down, she turned her eyes back to the merchant stalls. She picked up several trinkets, only to set them down after realizing how useless they were.
“Bastardized Ehzeri items,” Dannac finally said. “They look nothing like the real thing.”
But there were hundreds of Ehzeri clogging the dirt stree
ts and shoving the same objects into their black-stained bags, so maybe they were good enough.
Capra looked at her white blouse and saw the same vague smudges. There also was a grittiness between her teeth. By now she had conceded to living with it and stopped spitting to rid her mouth of it.
Towering above the market was a triangular metal structure—a crane, she decided—that began to creak and whine. There was a tiny cabin at one end, and a plume of black smoke issued from a pipe.
“Is there a man inside that?”
Dannac nodded. “I sat next to a man who was an owner under the industry corporation here, whose concern built these machines. There is a man inside who controls it.”
She shivered, visions of being cramped inside a tiny metal barrel on top of a giant tower. Then again, the fact of its height hardly mattered. The worst part was the small space. It might as well have been a closet or one of the raid shelters in which she had spent countless hours of her youth hiding with her parents.
Explosions. Dad with his hand over her mouth. Days inside, darkness, three people sharing a few slabs of unleavened bread. The dirt walls closed in, men shouted outside—
“We need one of these.”
Dannac’s voice snapped her back into the crowded street. In his hand he held a length of rope.
She paused for a few seconds while her heart slowed to normal. “I don’t even know where we’ll end up with this job.” She glanced at the crane. “But as long as it doesn’t involve one of those, I think I’ll be fine.”
Dannac gave her a puzzled look and dropped the coil into her arms. She glanced away, into the desert beyond the market, where a lone ox stood on the cracked earth. In a moment of utter serendipity, the animal’s horns formed a perfect circular frame around the sun. If only she could look at it directly—it would be a rare sight of beauty in this otherwise ugly land.
Dannac could look straight into the sun without harming himself. What would it be like? Would it be the same as if a person with normal vision were able to glimpse it? Or would his strange sight miss something? Or would it see something natural sight could not?