by C. A. Lang
“Oh, it’s too bad, really. I have these dancers, you see. Imported from Prasdim.”
Alim stopped and clenched his jaw. He hadn’t so much as looked at another woman since Jasaf had come home as a casket of unidentifiable body parts, and the infuriating part was that somewhere inside, past his discipline, was the urge to take Sevari’s offer.
“And, of course, the finest cuisine you’ll find anywhere.”
Well, perhaps it could wait just a few hours...
What was he thinking? He began to feel sorry for the man, but forced himself to leave. He had not come to the other side of the world to befriend the famous Till Sevari. Leave that for high-society-obsessed whores from Prasdim.
Without any windows in the place, Helverliss could only guess at the time of day. It had been what, late morning when they had come? He had barely put on the first pot of shalep when the foreboding knock rattled through his shop, all the way to his loft.
It had not been not a friendly knock, or an inquisitive one: those lacked the hardness of the clubs the Corps carried. It surely had not been hands striking his door.
He twisted in the chains, shifted the weight on his feet. He coughed and spat as far as his weak breath would throw his mucus.
Yes, it was a cruel inversion. One Helverliss could actually appreciate for its philosophical value. It was just too bad that it required him to be chained to the wall. He felt like one of the exhibits there, and was sure that this was all Sevari saw in him.
Would Sevari bring in his academic allies to witness the fall of the heretic philosopher? They would love to see his complete ruin here. The Divine only knew how many times he had blown their theories to pieces in small journals. With him imprisoned, they were completely unopposed, except for the legions of scholars east of Tamarck with whom Helverliss had a theoretical kinship. But nobody bothered to listen to them. They just didn’t exist to the people of Naartland.
Even in light of this disaster, though, he could not help but smile at the sight of his masterpiece. There it was, encased in glass no doubt made unbreakable by some charm. There, a beacon of nothing, plain black. From this distance, the voices still touched him, and the painting’s tendrils of notions flicked from the canvas and tickled his mind. Except, being the thing’s creator, he was not alarmed or surprised. He just leaned against his wall and grinned.
Let Sevari do what he wanted. He would never accomplish this—the successful capturing of something so sublime, so universal. The ethereal shadow beings.
Nature’s negative image.
The shadow and opposite of primitive libidinal life embodied by the fire giants—pure intent, malicious, manipulative intelligence, and for all that, still caring when viewed from the right perspective. Civilization itself.
He pulled at the chains once again, despite knowing that they would never yield.
If only he could conjure the power once again, he might break them.
The great Leader returned, this time without the Valoii. He spent minutes just staring at Helverliss.
Oh what Helverliss wouldn’t have given for a chance to sit down with Sevari, to apply the new analytic techniques to his strange mind. What kind of pathological processes were at work? What kind of coping mechanism was this descent into mystical mania?
Finally, Sevari spoke: “Here is what I need you to do, Noro. I need that power inside me. I know it is the darkness. I must take it within myself and conquer it.”
“You are mad. It does not work that way.”
“It does! When I transmute the raw death contained in that painting—the demise of everything divine in the pits after Akhli tricked the shadow men into falling into their own trap—I will be complete. I will be Akhli himself, the master of both divine forces.”
Helverliss laughed, and a sawing-gnawing plagued his ribs.
“Imagine possessing the primal force of the fire giants along with the cruel intelligence of the shadow men. You must have thought this when you created this horrible painting.”
No wonder there had been increasing instances of vague anti-religious mania in some circles. It was naive and silly, but Helverliss did see how fervour like Sevari’s would necessarily create its antithesis in the assurance of atheism.
“Kill me,” Helverliss finally said.
“Kill you?”
“Yes.”
“My good man, why would I do that?” He reached into his coat and produced a writing pad and a pencil. “Will you just dictate to me the vihs procedures you used to access this darkness?”
“Never.”
Sevari hummed to himself. His eyes flashed with a kind of random blinking that would have disturbed Helverliss had he been healthy.
Then Sevari hit him.
“Well? What have you to say for yourself now?”
“You don’t deserve to know how I did it. I’d sooner give the secret to one of the tyrants in exile from Yahrein than you.”
Sevari then reached to his belt and unfurled a flail.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It would be fine. Capra had faced her fear before. This usually ended with her shivering in a cold sweat and sometimes even with the task complete, but she could still overcome the fear.
Not likely, but probability wasn’t one of her strengths.
She squinted at Feyerbik’s schematic, which wasn’t much more than a decorative grid of random lines in the poor light of the pub.
“So they are hiding war criminals here too?”
“Shut up, Dannac. That’s the last thing I need right now. He wants to make up for what he did. And he dislikes the Leader.”
“Does that make it okay?”
She rolled up the schematic and shoved it back into its tube. “I really don’t care right now, Dannac.”
There must have been something in the air. Something besides the miasma that one moment smelled sour and metallic, only to shift with the wind into a sickly sweet odour. What else could account for Dannac’s sudden personality change? He was always uptight, but this was different.
And why did he keep making eyes with Vasi? She watched their new companion nurse a glass of water. Every so often, Vasi met Dannac’s eyes with a flash of conspiracy.
Finally, she could take it no more. “What? What is it?”
Both just shrugged, and she wanted to slap them.
She ordered another small beer. The selection of ales and lagers at this particular pub tempted her, but they weren’t rich yet, and she also needed to keep her wits sharp.
“Okay. So I need to know what your brother looks like if I’m going to pull him out of there.”
Vasi looked puzzled. “Why? I am coming with you.”
“Oh no. Haven’t you been paying attention? The only way in is through the clock’s machines and drives and whatever else these things are made of.”
“I was going to lead you right in. I am an employee, you know.”
It was tempting, but she knew it was impossible. “You’re an enemy of the state now, Vasi. You have to realize that. You can’t show up at the front door.” A waitress who would barely look at the three outsiders slammed Capra’s small beer on the table. “Gee, thanks honey, thanks a lot.” Even this didn’t garner anything more than a slight sneer from the waitress. “Anyway, how might I find Rovan?”
“He is in the tower somewhere. He does errands for the rest of us... I mean, for the tower’s staff. That means my section, Section Three, the medical research group, the archivists... the tower has so many floors.” Vasi fidgeted and made marks in the condensation on her glass. “Rovan is just like any other Ehzeri boy. He has dark curly hair. He’s a good boy, Capra.”
“I know, but what would happen if I knocked out some other boy and brought him to you? Would we just call it even and hope the kid is willing to pretend to be your brother?”
“I see what you mean.”
She slid a napkin towards Vasi and dropped a pencil onto the table. “Can you draw him? Ehzeri are great artists...”
&n
bsp; “I cannot draw to save my life,” Dannac said. Capra stuck out her tongue at him.
Vasi pushed away the paper. “It would be no use.” She stared at Dannac once more, then took Capra’s hand. “But there is another trick that might work.”
Dannac grumbled. “I wouldn’t...”
Before Capra could question the remark, Vasi squeezed her hand and said, “Try to block the noise from your mind. Try to think of what a waterfall sounds like.”
“Huh?”
But as soon as she did, there came a strange fog, thick enough to blot out the pub around her. She could still feel the pressure of Vasi’s hand, but otherwise the fog had completely consumed the external world.
“What do you see?” The voice came from nowhere; the same unseen dimension from which came the sensation of Vasi’s hand.
Capra’s heart jolted. She stared into infinity, into nothingness; just a greyness and fuzzy light light.
“What have you done? Where did everything go?”
“Good.”
She wanted to stand and run, but the conflict between her presence in this void and her idea of reality paralysed her.
The greyness twisted and knit into an apparition. A boy. On his face was the makings of a mustache, and on his fingers were gaudy rings of copper and cheap stones. He crossed his arms and looked on with a capricious smirk.
In the next instant, her surroundings flipped back to the pub. A passing waitress shot her a look of disdain, and Vasi was hunched forward, mouth dropped open and eyes wide.
“Did you see? Did you see Rovan?”
Now Dannac leaned in, eyeing Capra with an appraising stare and rubbing his chin.
Capra blinked and waited for her eyes to adjust to the low, yellow light. “About my height, gangly, bad mustache, lopsided smile? And a really ugly ring on his finger. Like ridiculously ugly.”
There was a silence while Dannac and Vasi gazed at each other for what seemed a long while. “What? What just happened?”
“Capra, you just—”
Dannac raised his voice. “It is an Ehzeri trick. Illusions. Most are susceptible to them.”
Vasi cut in again. “But—”
“Really, that is all. Vasi.”
Had it really happened? It seemed like more than an illusion. She guzzled the small beer and touched the table and bench to ground herself in reality. Solid stuff—the stuff that never disappointed her, always existing as it should. How could the Ehzeri continue to persist in their imaginary world? If she had to spend her life competing with the foggy universe of appearances she had just glimpsed, it would drive her to insanity.
“Okay. Well, at least I’ll recognize him when I see him. So Dannac will come with me, and once we find Rovan, he’ll take him down the clock mechanism, and I’ll find Helverliss and his painting.”
Dannac cleared his throat. “Good. Except that we are not sure that we can climb down the mechanism.”
“What?”
“I saw your schematic. The way the gears are arranged seems like a person could only get away with climbing up through it.”
“Then how are we supposed to get out?”
“I was thinking of jumping out the window.”
Vasi smiled, probably assuming it to be a joke.
Sevari stopped at the mirror before leaving his office: he had to check the knot of his tie, make sure his trouser creases were neat and crisp. He straightened the Corps campaign ribbons on his jacket, and checked the positioning of the rose emblem band on his left arm. His boots had arrived earlier that morning shined to his exacting standards, and one of the servants had plastered his hair with pomade.
It was the fifth day of the week. It was, he reflected as he marched to his personal elevator, too bad that such a happy occasion be spoiled by such sadness.
But duty was duty.
Just as he reached the hall containing his elevator, he stopped to greet young Rovan, who carried a large yellow envelope in his hand.
“This is from Section Three, Leader. They say everything is in order.”
Such a sweet boy, that Rovan. “I am in a hurry, young man. Just go into my office and put it on my desk.”
The boy’s eyes went wide. It probably sounded like the stuff of myth to the boy, that kind of directive. “Me? Go into your office?”
He ruffled Rovan’s hair. “You’ve been doing such good work, my boy. I trust you more than my caucus. Section Three would be nothing without your contribution.”
Rovan’s face flashed with an uneasiness. Sevari stooped and decided that Rovan’s loyalty was worth a few minutes from his schedule. “Is everything going well for you? Are the others giving you trouble?”
Rovan shook his head.
“Then why the long face, son?”
“It is nothing. Just... they’ve become scared of me.”
“Because of your success?”
“I guess you could say that.”
The boy could barely make eye contact with Sevari. He assumed this was just the way boys Rovan’s age behaved—it was an awkward time. Having never produced children, this was unknown territory.
Rovan continued: “Leader, do you know what Section Three does?”
“Of course. Spiritual research. Experiments in intelligence. And their success is going to ensure that my district is the best defended district of Naartland. We may not have armies of thousands, but we do have something almost as good.”
The boy appeared even more conflicted. But after a few seconds of contemplation, he appeared to brighten some. “Anyway, I’ll go drop this off.”
“Good show, little man!” Sevari patted Rovan’s head.
Children could be strange at times, couldn’t they? It was probably harmless. Clearly he was a hard worker, at the very least.
Once he descended into the dank pit of the tower’s basement, he stepped into his private rail car, built just for the trip between the refinery and the palace. The engineer bowed his head with appropriate solemnity, as he had been taught, and said nothing during the trip.
At the palace he found found, as always, a contingent of minor bureaucrats hungry for him to sign a ream of forms and bills. They were everywhere, and when he quickened his pace, they followed even faster, a ragged drumbeat of office shoes.
He could take no more of this pestering, and halted. “Must I remind you all that this is my day of grieving?”
In half of a breath, the secretaries and caucus members and administrators and maintenance men shut their mouths. Their eyes all went wide, as if they all knew of this collective crime they had committed.
“Get back to work, all of you.” Sevari removed his pocket watch, glanced at its face. “I am going to be late if this continues.”
The staff inclined their heads in unison and shuffled back to the offices and meeting rooms. A minute more of their pleading and wasting his time, and he would have ordered the fat one with the soprano voice shot as an example.
He ducked out of the main halls into the polished marble and brass corridors that had linked the throne room with the rest of the palace. While the offices and public areas were crumbling, this section shone like a mirror hall and smelled of incense. The old throne room, which now housed his memorial, was like an island in the immense hall. First, he took the circular walkway that skirted the glass enclosure. This was as close as anyone else, even his old friends when they were alive, could come to the memorial.
He then inserted his special key into the giant iron door. A hiss of pressure sounded, and he inhaled the sickly odour of preservative that had long ago become the harbinger of fond memories.
There, on the wall, sketches and paintings he had commissioned and placed in the hall leading to the Sevari family’s resting place. His mother’s flowing hair, his sister’s innocent smile, the old days when things made sense and people were honourable... Such beautiful paintings. Such wonderful times...
As he neared his family, he tugged at his lapels and once more patted down his hair.
A voice called to him in breathless moaning. “Till? Till? Is that you?”
Mamma always spoke first. He went to her pedestal, where his mother’s torso stood set into a complex array of machines and vihs capacitors. An iron lung next to the pedestal wheezed and the tubes connected to Mamma’s back fluttered with each hiss of the machine.
“It is me, mother.”
“Pa’s outside. Told me to. Told me to.”
“What did he tell you?”
She paused while the respirator hissed a new breath. “Told me to get you to. Early start on the harvest.”
“Yes, mother. Harvest time already. What will you do with all those apples?”
“You can make a pie. You can make a jelly.”
“Mmm I like pie. Would you make me a pie?”
“You can make a pie.”
He bent to inspect his mother’s face closely after noticing an ugly speck on her skin. Yes, there it was—a blemish on one of her leather replacement panels. And her makeup needed redoing.
He went on to his sister. This one was in much better shape than the others, both physically and mentally. It still wasn’t clear to him exactly why he had chosen not to have the rope burns removed from her neck. It just didn’t seem right to erase that horrible event.
Luckily, her voice was fine. “Till, you’re back. Listen to me, you have to get me out of here.”
He nodded, the movement as mechanical as the limited jerks of his family. “Yes, it’s terrible what they’ve done. But I’m here now.” This one he was able to make eye contact with, since the engineers had been able to preserve much of her face so well that with the help of the specially calibrated lights on the wall, they gleamed with the same inner life they had before the war.
“Get me out, Till.” She shifted on her post, and the respirator made a sucking sound. Her eyes flashed with a different kind of recognition. “Till?” She looked down at herself, at the functionless legs, the arms that could only move slightly at the elbow. “What have you done?” More jerks and jolts. “I... I cannot move. Till, help me.”
He angled around to inspect the wires running into the back of her neck.