The City of Ice

by K. M. McKinley

  The emitter sat in a chair facing a fire. Tiriton’s Hall was as large and as finely decorated as all the other rooms in the palace—a riot of frescoes, statues, plaster mouldings and impractical tables groaning under the weight of vulgar bronzes. In its decorative theme of oceans, mythical and not-so-mythical creatures, the deeds of the banished sea god and his numerous daughters, it shared a commonality with the ministry of the Admiralty in Karsa, where Garten worked. The chief difference was that the Karsan ministry was tasteful, whereas it looked like a troupe of avant garde artists elated by their own self importance and hallucinogenic spirits had outfitted this room.

  The emissary of the Drowned King occupied the hall, unsurprisingly, on his own. Light was restricted to a scattering of candles. The chandelier was unlit, the glimmer lamps out. The emissary stood from his chair with a creak of dried leather, and bowed stiffly. Not because of a choice of etiquette, or personal preference. His construction determined that he could bow no other way.

  The emissary was a horror in a fine suit, a dried cadaver whose bones made sharp ridges under sunken, waxy skin. Black lips were frozen, drawn back over teeth made long by the withdrawal of dead gums. They were perfect teeth, bright and clean as seashells on brown sand. They attracted the attention, drawing Garten in as inexorably as a whirlpool. However horrifying the perfection of the teeth, they were better than the eyes; round, glistening balls that rolled fully exposed by shrunken eyelids, the only truly living thing about the emissary, horribly large in that dead face. The eyelids, dry as old scabs, delineated the eyes in black, accentuating their rolling moistness like macabre kohl.

  “Greeting Garten Kressind,” said the emissary in a weirdly human voice. He spoke warmly, but his charm was undermined by the clack of his white teeth and the rasp of his pointed, black tongue upon them. He sounded like he were a machine clacking out words, and not a thinking creature. “You must forgive my appearance. I was forced to undergo certain preservative measures to avoid decay upon arriving on land.”

  Garten waved away the emissary’s concerns. “I had not noticed.”

  “Really? Many people find me somewhat disturbing. Horrifying, even.”

  “No, not at all,” said Garten. An attempt not to breathe through his mouth for politeness’s sake had him nearly gag.

  The emissary laughed. He held up a handkerchief to his mouth when he did in a bizarre display of good manners. “Yes you do. Why do you think I sit in here alone? I am invited to every ball and dance, every banquet. I cannot dance, I do not eat. My attendance provokes revulsion, but I come anyway. There are always matters of state to attend to, and these gatherings are where so much of import is discussed. I am always afforded my own room,” he said. He held up his arms and his leathery hide squeaked. “A good choice, is it not? For the same reasons I do not show myself openly, I will not ask you to shake hands with me. I will stress that this is not a display of ill feeling on my part, nor a calculated show of enmity. I refrain from physical contact in deference to the sensibilities of others.”

  “You are very kind, goodfellow.”

  “Naturally. Undeath does not have to kill manners.”

  The emissary did, however, approach him. He walked very slowly, and with difficulty. Never had Garten seen so arid a being, but his fashionable shoes left moist prints on the tiled floor. The quadruple scents of smoke, perfume, formaldehyde and the ocean swelled in time with the music playing in the ballroom, making Garten faint. He heard the pounding of the waves under the music. He placed his hand upon a table to steady himself.

  “What can I do for you, goodfellow?” Garten asked.

  “Goodfellow? I suppose I am now. But who knows what I once was. Sailor? Merchant? A lowly gleaner, caught unawares in the tide? A criminal even, left pegged out to drown? I am who I am. Who I was when I was alive is unimportant. In truth, I remember little. When a spirit goes from one form to another, it leaves behind its former being. The drowned forget everything. Whoever I was, I am not he, and he would be horrified by me. I am what I am, as we all are.” He put his handkerchief to his nose again, perhaps in admission of his own stench. “It is strange to be here, on the dry land. I often ponder that it must have been natural to me once. Now it is the most alien of habitats. It was unpleasant to be made fit for this role, and I can no longer go back. I am, if you will, a fish out of water.” The tight black lips creaked into an awful smile. “Alas, although I myself bear you no ill will, I have been tasked with delivering sorry news, and I have been ordered that it must be delivered to you, no other.”

  “Very well,” said Garten.

  “A little under three months ago, your brother’s ship, the Prince Alfra, crossed the domain of the Drowned, to whit, the Drowning Sea, wherein is located the court of my lord. I will cut to the chase and say Trassan Kressind did this without the proper authorisation. My master is greatly displeased.”

  “Trassan was in possession of the correct papers.”

  “He had papers. He presented them. They were correctly composed, but they are not to the spirit of our treaty. No ships to pass the Drowned Sea, or to venture further than two hundred sea miles south of the Isle of Skelpy without permission of the Drowned King.”

  “We are within our rights to issue Licenses Undefined to whomever requires them, so long as there is a need. Exploration is a valid reason.”

  “Your ship engaged in battle with my lord and our border guard.”

  “I am shocked. But the Prince Alfra is not a warship.”

  “Nor is it a solely an exploration vessel,” said the emissary. “I read the broadsheets, goodfellow. I pass on the news to my lord under the sea. The target of this ship and that of the Maceriyan Vardeuche Persin is an intact Morfaan city. This is a matter of industrialists’ rivalry, not a scientific expedition.”

  “And Persin?”

  “He did have the correct papers, in accordance with our treaty with the Kingdom of Maceriya.”

  “How?” said Garten. “If one expedition is to be allowed, why not another?”

  “I cannot discuss the details of agreements struck with another sovereign nation, you understand.”

  “Yes, yes. What occurred? Was anyone hurt?”

  “A great many of my master’s subjects were hurt,” said the emissary, “but I assume you express concern for the welfare of your brother?”

  “Brothers. There were two of them aboard.”

  “Ah, yes, the Guider,” said the emissary. His bog brown face lacking the flexibility necessary for the majority of facial expressions, he conveyed his sympathy by gesture. The way he tilted his head then suggested a sardonic streak to his character. “Now he did have proper permissions, by merit of the standing agreement between his order and my master for access to the Final Isle. An agreement also violated by his guiding of one hundred and twelve servants of my master into the realms of the dead. The agreement between the Sunken Kingdom and the kingdoms of the land is and has always been that the drowned belong to the Drowned King. Is that not so?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Then you will be forced to admit, Garten Kressind, that your brothers have committed an act of aggression. Be thankful my master has not yet decided upon a course of action. Sanctions will be forthcoming. Our agreement with the Guiders is also under review, though we are willing to write off Aarin Kressind’s transgression as a rogue act.”

  “These are strong accusations. I cannot imagine my brothers acting without provocation.”

  “The drowned were the ones provoked, goodfellow,” said the emissary.

  “Why not tell this directly to the duke. You and he are of the same rank. He would hear you. He has been expecting a summons to audience.”

  “Yes, that. Among others, the licence had your signature upon it. As secretary to the Duke Abing, Lord of the Karsan Admiralty, we naturally suppose it was you who pushed through your brother’s Licence Undefined. We hold you personally responsible. The greed of your people has become insatiable, and nowhe
re is that clearer than in the actions of your family. You epitomise the overreaching arrogance of the Karsans.” An apologetic cough rattled in his throat. “The king’s words, not mine. With this act of nepotism you push us too hard. I apologise but my master wishes that you tell the Duke Abing of what I must import as a punishment to you. He bears grudges strongly. You are fortunate that his fury stops at that.”

  Garten took in a deep breath, the stench of the emissary nearly choked him, and he spluttered his words out. “Hang on a moment! I warned my brother time and again against crossing the Drowning Sea, but he would not have it. I told him of the risks, I informed him of the agreement.”

  “Then we concur.”

  “We do not concur, goodfellow,” said Garten. “His documentation was legally proper and signed by the highest authorities in the land. I did not push it through. My signature is upon the paper as issuer of the licence, nothing else. If there was a clash, then it would have been for good reason. I refuse to believe your accusations.”

  The emissary shrugged, a horribly slow and noisy movement. “And we do not believe you. I do not believe you, to be frank. The treaty was flouted and we were attacked. I am sorry to inform you that should your brothers set sail on any sea again, they will face the wrathful retaliation of the drowned. Wherever they go, we shall find them. Furthermore, if there is another incident of this severity again, it will lead to the rescinding of the treaty and, I fear, war between the isles and the drowned. Karsa suffered hundreds years of reaving at the hands of unghosted sea dead, until the signature of the treaty with your people. Two centuries of peace, goodfellow, and you want to throw it away for the chance to burgle the houses of the Morfaan. Such lack of foresight, the squandering of one true advantage for the slim chance of another. You let the wrong anguillon slip the hook. None of us wish to find ourselves in a situation where the drowned are once again permitted to walk upon the land.

  “Pass on this news to your duke, Goodfellow Kressind. Pray do it sensibly. Although my master would welcome a war to replenish his army with the bodies of your sailors, I have no wish to see innocent men die.” The emissary looked down at his body, his neck creaked and popped. “I do not recall any other existence, but I know what I am. I would not wish this unlife upon the blackest of souls. Now I have delivered my message. I have other appointments to keep, and would like to look at the fire a little longer before I must speak again. There is nothing like it under the sea.”

  Garten clicked his heels and bowed. He left, tense with an anger he could not display. Out in the hall of the dome the ball was becoming livelier. Under the influence of sour Maceriyan wine, goodfellows and goodladies alike became as raucous as decorum allowed. Garten decided to join them. Today was a day that demanded a drink, followed by several more. Damn his stomach.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  A Second Important Meeting

  PERUS AND ITS many shadows had always held a terror for Guis, and so he had avoided it. When a man is running from the darkness, the worst place to be is where the sun shines rarely.

  None of that mattered any more. The Darkling rode the flesh of Guis Kressind and the man was locked away.

  The creature strode quickly, relishing the pumping of Guis’s blood, the play of muscles under Guis’s skin, the thrumming of its stolen heart and whoosh and roar of breath in its lungs. Carnality delighted it. After several months in the stolen body, it had come to see itself as Guis. The corporeal form of Guis Kressind belonged wholly to the Darkling. The library of the man’s memories, hopes, dreams and fears were its to peruse at will. Guis’s fears especially made it laugh, for it was the dreaded culmination of them. The more the Darkling steeped itself in Guis’s life, rolling in the filth of his mind like a dog in the spoor of its prey, it identified with him. Guis Kressind was the name it was forced to present to the unsuspecting mortals it encountered, and so Guis Kressind was the name it had come to associate with itself. This too was a thrilling novelty. The Darkling had never had a name before.

  As far as the Darkling was concerned, Guis was he and he was Guis. It was Guis that crossed the road. Guis who dodged a thundering carriage, Guis who winked at a beautiful girl walking the pavement, making her hurry by. He liked the look of unease on their faces. The pretty ones were the most reactive. They were the ones who had weathered the leers of others most often. He enjoyed the paradox some presented, dressed up to be attractive, outraged when their efforts attracted the attention of those they would rather avoid, angry when no one noticed them. The mortal world was steeped in such small hypocrisies.

  Guis was someone anyone would avoid. The Darkling’s possession disturbed the flesh. Guis’s skin had become pallid and greasy, his eyes sunken in brown rings, his frame gaunt, though the Darkling often gorged itself for the pleasure of eating. Often it forgot to wash. The Darkling had little idea to begin with that mortals needed to toilet. Its skills were not perfect yet, and Guis smelled because of it. His clothes were in disarray and hair lank.

  Nevertheless it was Guis, Guis Kressind, not the Darkling, not the nameless creature of the Dark Lady, not the servant of misrule, but a man who went to the door of the house of the Infernal Duke. So what if a new and abominable soul steered the body? Guis was what it called itself.

  Guis let himself in. A potent combination of his innate magical ability and the Darkling’s uncanny arts brushed aside the duke’s defences. There was no one home. A residue of magic sparkled in his nostrils; the trails of unthings whispered into being to cook and clean. The duke had become parochial, employing parlour tricks to do his housework for him. The psychic geography of the house slipped through his mind as cool pebbles slip through fingers; the shape, texture and colour of each impression telling a different story to one skilled enough to read them. There was a stain of dismay on the weave of the house, of shame, of ecstasy, and the sickly taste of unreturned love. Faded thoughts and feelings, bleached away by the wash of time. A fresher tint, less nuanced but taking on complexity, overprinted all the rest. He shut his eyes and licked his lips. “Madelyne,” he said, tasting the name on the fabric of the world.

  She was not present. There was no living thing within. No insect or vermin or life of any sort made its home in the duke’s abode. The duke’s insubstantial staff would never have to dust away a cobweb or chase away a lizard from the pantry. His presence alone kept small things away. It was a dead house, partly divorced from the world, though anchored to its soil.

  “Like the duke,” giggled Guis. “Lost at sea.” He whistled a tuneless song as he wandered down the hall, drawn directly to the tower of the north wing. As he passed under the bedrooms of the girls the duke had entertained, he touched upon their pleasures and their pains, old and worn emotions. A spike of fear tented reality’s weave as he passed under Madelyne’s room, but that too was quickly gone as he sauntered by. Muskier sensations, less human more animal, tickled at him as he entered the tower. During the day the interior was bright, tall windows up the stairwell on three sides bringing an abundance of light at odds with the animus loci of the tower. It was a nocturnal building, slothful in the day. He trailed his hand along the door of the ground floor room where Madelyne had languished that first night and several since, and dozens of other women on hundreds of nights before her. Sorrow, excitement, embarrassment, uncertainty, terror, arousal and a dozen other emotional notes tinkled in Guis’s mind. He drew in a delighted breath, flexed his hand as he drew it back and looked further. He sensed more satisfying fare above. He mounted the stairs. The first floor echoed with raw sensation lost in the confusing territory between agony, shame and ecstasy. The room on the floor after was massy with magic and throbbed with the most extreme of emotions. Few of the duke’s consorts had been admitted through that door. Not all of them had come out.

  “Tut tut tut,” breathed Guis, resting his face on the door and drinking in past pains and pleasures. “You have been busy.”

  Upon the third floor Guis passed the duke’s personal bedroom
. He could not resist peeking inside—the other rooms might be the more theatrical, but this was the duke’s personal space and so he cracked the door and peeked. More insight could be gained from what he felt there than any number of sensual torture chambers. He found it disappointingly prosaic. A large bed built for the duke’s size occupied the centre of the room. A chamber pot the size of a small cauldron poked out from beneath. The covers were askew, the nightstand heaped with books.

  Guis sniffed and licked at the air using senses possessed by no man, solely for his own entertainment. Sniggering at the duke’s pretensions to mortality, Guis pushed the door quietly closed. What he required was at the top of the tower.

  The tower rose over the roofs of the other buildings on the Place Macer. The stair ended on a landing that allowed one to stand right by the last window, and Guis spent a long time gazing at the city. He picked out the twin domes of the Grand House of Assembly and the Palace of Assembly on the Hill of Roses, the vulgar mausoleum of Res Iapetus crowning the Ardsmont. The plunging cleft of the Foirree and the steel bridges over it. The city disappeared in places, sucked down into its deep cavernas. Away on the tallest hill was the Pantheon Maximale. The pinnacle of the cupola on its dome resting, by chance arrangement of perspective, exactly on the rim of the Godhome.

  The thing in Guis remembered Perus from the old times, and it found the changes not to its liking. The stone and the sky had become stained brown with industry. The Godhome’s shadow put half the city in the dark, and the streets there twinkled with glimmerlight even though the sun was high. “For freedom Res Iapetus did this,” said Guis. “From the city of the morning to the city of shadow. Well done, humanity.” Guis’s parasite was a wicked being through and through, but its evil was of a particular kind. To see Perus so abused sorrowed him.

  Guis left the view. He paused a moment before the double doors of the final room. Flexing his fingers, Guis undid the magic around the place piece by piece and opened the door without discovery. Inside he discovered a temple to the lost gods.