Ashes of the Sun

by Django Wexler

  “Come in, dear.”

  Maya pushed the door open. Basel’s office was small and crowded with bits and pieces of arcana. He collected Elder artifacts, especially those with no obvious purpose, and every square inch had been turned into a shelf for strange little creations with smooth white curves and gemlike protrusions. A few of these were obviously broken, like the gold-veined staff with a broad crack through the center that hung just behind Basel’s desk, but most seemed intact.

  Basel himself sat behind an unmetal desk, repurposed from some ancient facility. He was surprisingly tall and broad-shouldered for someone with his intellectual reputation, and must have been a powerful man in his youth. Now his skin was spotted and wrinkled, and all the hair from the top of his head seemed to have moved to his chin. His eyes were a bright crimson and showed no signs of softening with age.

  There was a chair in front of the desk, and a few more off to one side. Jaedia sat in one of these, looking down at her hands as Maya came in. Maya tried to catch her eyes, but Basel cleared his throat, demanding her immediate attention.

  “Maya,” he said. His smile was almost lost between beard and mustache. “It’s good to see you.”

  “And you, Kyriliarch.” Maya bowed, her hands clenched at her sides.

  “Basel, please.” He waved a hand. “Shut the door and have a seat.”

  She did so. Jaedia still wouldn’t look at her, and Basel’s smile had a forced quality to it, as though he were putting the best face on something unpleasant. Maya’s stomach went sour, and she swallowed.

  “Jaedia,” Basel said, “has given me extremely encouraging reports on your progress.”

  “I’m gratified to hear that,” Maya said, sneaking another sideways look at her mentor.

  “And how do you feel?” He touched his chest, about where the Thing would be. “No fevers or weakness?”

  Maya shook her head. “A few ordinary colds now and then, but nothing worse.”

  “Good, good.” Basel gave a long sigh. “You don’t know how much we agonized over your… treatment. Looking at you now, I’m very glad we made the right decision.”

  “I…” Maya hesitated. “Thank you, Kyriliarch. Basel.”

  “Now.” Basel leaned forward, clasping his hands in front of him. “You are a very talented young woman, Maya. From what Jaedia tells me, you have the potential to be one of the strongest centarchs the Order has seen in many years. Is that still your desire?”

  “Of course.” She blinked, a little bewildered.

  “Excellent.” He sat back. “We believe you’re ready for the next step in your education.”

  “Ready?” Maya shook her head, glancing at Jaedia. “I thought it would still be… some time.”

  “Yes. Well.” Basel looked uncomfortable for a moment. “Circumstances being what they are, the Council thought it best to… accelerate things somewhat.”

  “Circumstances?” Maya said. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “Jaedia’s services are required for a particular task,” Basel said. “It would not be ideal for your training to accompany her. But since you are doing so well, she and I agree it will do you no harm to begin your next assignment immediately. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

  “Begin—you mean now?” Maya caught her breath, and all at once she understood. Whatever she’s doing is the important mission, the one I’m not ready for. So she’s shuffling me off to a… a sideshow.

  “Yes,” Basel said mildly, as if he hadn’t just turned her world upside down.

  “I…” She said I was nearly ready for my cognomen. Maya’s throat felt thick, and she groped for words. Now she’s leaving me behind. “I… understand.”

  “Very good,” Basel said. “I expect great things of you, Maya.”

  She forced her head up, meeting his gaze. “I won’t disappoint you, Kyriliarch.”

  The red eyes glittered unsettlingly. “I know you won’t.”

  “I should… prepare.” Maya blinked away tears, determined not to show weakness. She couldn’t look at Jaedia. “If you’ll excuse me?”

  Basel nodded, already looking down at the papers on his desk. Maya turned away and swallowed hard.

  “Maya—” Jaedia said.

  Maya hurried out before she could finish. She managed to keep her composure until she turned the first corner, wiping furiously at her eyes.

  Jaedia found her on a balcony, chin in her hands, looking out across the lake at the distant spires of Skyreach. Mist rising from the water made the city look unreal, shimmering like a mirage. Maya sat on a stone bench between great round planters, listening to the leaves of the potted trees swaying overhead and trying not to think.

  “There you are,” Jaedia said. Maya didn’t look up.

  Her mentor came and sat beside her in silence. The midday sun caught the angled glass of Skyreach’s towers, making them gleam like liquid gold. Kilometers-long swathes of reflected light shimmered on the waters of the lake.

  “I thought you would be happy,” Jaedia said after a while.

  Maya gritted her teeth and said nothing.

  “You’ll be on a mission with a group of other trainees, under a senior agathios but with no other supervision. It’s an important step forward.” Jaedia touched her shoulder tentatively. “You said you wanted to get your cognomen—”

  “You don’t have to pretend.” Maya shifted away. “The Council is sending you to do something important, and you don’t think I’m strong enough to help, so you’re leaving me behind.”

  “Oh,” Jaedia said, and there was a moment of silence. “You heard.”

  “I heard,” Maya said bitterly. “I wish you could just be honest with me.”

  “It isn’t like that,” Jaedia said gently. “Truly. If I was concerned with keeping you out of danger, would I bring Marn with me?”

  “You’re bringing Marn?” Maya looked at her mentor incredulously.

  “Marn is going to spend a lot of time stuck in his room reading the Inheritance,” Jaedia said. “And if I could have you with me, Maya, I would. I swear to you.”

  Maya blinked away tears and rubbed her eyes with her sleeve. “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I. Not completely.” Jaedia took a deep breath. “It’s the Council. They have… strongly suggested that you get this assignment while I’m away.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Politics,” Jaedia said, as though it were something scatological. “I’ve tried to keep us out of it. But Basel is a Pragmatic, and you and I are associated with him. He says this came from the Dogmatics on the Council.”

  Though the details of Council politics were a mystery to Maya, she at least understood the basic sides. All members of the Order were sworn to exterminate dhak and dhakim and protect humanity from unsanctioned arcana, plaguespawn, and other threats; the difference of opinion was on how they should focus their efforts. The Pragmatics believed that by turning a blind eye to small transgressions, the Order could maintain its standing with the people and focus on the really dangerous problems. The Dogmatics insisted that any such indulgence was heresy, and deviations were responsible for the gradual decline in Order power. They wanted strict enforcement and swift punishment.

  “What do the Dogmatics want with me?” Maya said.

  “I don’t know,” Jaedia said. “I think Basel suspects, but he’s not saying, the secretive old shit. But things must be worse than I thought.” She sighed. “It may be that they simply want you to fail.”

  “Fail?”

  “Maybe they think that would embarrass Basel. Or maybe it would make one of their own look good by comparison. I don’t know.” Jaedia’s expression was a mask of frustration. “I stayed away for so long because I wanted to keep out of this dhak.”

  Maya sat for a long moment.

  “All right,” she said. “So what do we do about it?”

  “Oh, Maya.” Jaedia looked down at her and smiled. “It’s your greatest gift, do you know that? Nothing slows
you down for long.” She sighed. “I won’t pretend this is exactly what I wanted for you. But you are equal to whatever challenge they set, I swear to you. You understand?”

  “I understand,” Maya said. The knot in her chest softened a little.

  “They may expect you to fail. I expect you to disappoint them. And when you come back, they’ll have no choice but to give you your cognomen.”

  “I will.” Maya’s voice faltered. “But…”

  “What?”

  Her jaw clenched. “Will I see you again? Afterward?”

  Jaedia’s eyes widened. “Is that what you’re worried about?” She grinned and looked suddenly more like her old self. “Once you’re a centarch, you’ll be able to go where you like, on your own authority. Nothing to say that you and I can’t travel together for as long as we fancy. Somebody is going to have to keep Marn from getting too big for his boots.”

  Maya let out a long, shaky breath and gave a weak grin.

  “Where are they sending you?” she said. “How long will you be away?”

  “I can’t say. But it is important,” Jaedia said. “Basel was right on that count.”

  “Does it have something to do with Hollis and that black spider?”

  “Clever girl.” Jaedia gave a half smile. “Once you’re a centarch, I’ll be able to tell you everything.”

  Chapter 4

  From above, the Pit looked like a knife wound carved into the granite of the mountain, a crevasse a kilometer long and several hundred meters across. Legend said that it had originally been cut as neat as a surgeon’s incision with an unmetal scalpel, but four hundred years of caustic fog rising from the depths had eaten away at the rock. The edges crumbled, bit by bit, breaking loose to bounce down the cliff face into the glowing fog that shrouded the depths where the Chosen weapon still gnawed at the earth.

  This erosion had been uneven. Outcrops of tougher rock remained as freestanding peninsulas and even islands, balanced precariously on ever-narrowing bases until they finally gave way and toppled into the deeps. As a rule, the wealthiest districts of Deepfire were those closest to the Pit, with the Spike on the east side and the great palaces of the merchant combines lining the west. But only a madman would build on the very edge, where the rock crumbled a little more each day, and only the maddest would try to use the islands themselves.

  Deepfire being what it was, there was no shortage of madmen willing to gamble that the inevitable collapse would come just a little later. One such entrepreneur had thrown a spindly wood-and-cable bridge from the east bank to one of the larger islands and constructed a rambling, three-story wooden structure that seemed to less stand on its rocky base than cling to it desperately. It was a bar, a brothel, and a gambling den all rolled together, catering to the soldiers and servants of the Republic nobles who lived in the shadow of the Spike. The owner, foresightedly, had named it the Smoking Wreckage.

  The sun was setting behind the jagged peaks of the western horizon. Gyre, loitering in the street opposite the swaying rope bridge, watched the sky go from burning crimson to a faded, bruised purple and straightened his borrowed linen coat. His scar itched something fierce, but he didn’t dare scratch.

  Well. Here goes nothing.

  He’d spent much of the day getting ready, in between arguments with Lynnia.

  “You don’t think I should go?” Gyre said.

  Lynnia scowled. “Of course I don’t think you should go!”

  They were in the alchemist’s workshop. Gyre sat in front of a section of worktop that sported a large mirror, mixing a gooey powder in a metal dish. Lynnia sat in her chair, swiveling irritably back and forth.

  “What’s the problem?” Gyre said.

  “You mean, apart from how this is obviously a trap?”

  “I would say that it’s only probably a trap.”

  “Gyre. Who goes to the Smoking Wreckage?”

  He shrugged. “Servants looking for a good time. Merchant combine guards. Caravaneers.”

  “And Auxies,” Lynnia said. “The place is practically their second headquarters. You might as well walk into the Spike and offer Raskos your head.”

  “Hence the disguise,” Gyre said, testing the consistency of the goop in the bowl with one finger.

  “Which you’re going to blow as soon as you use this idiot code word to announce yourself.” Lynnia leaned her head back and sighed. “I know how much you want this, Gyre. You’ve been looking for Doomseeker ever since you first heard his name. But all this means is that the dux knows it, too.”

  “Maybe.” Gyre scooped the goop onto his finger, squinted in the mirror, and started layering it across his face. “We’ll find out.”

  “I have no idea how you’ve survived this long.” Lynnia glared at him. “And if you don’t come back, what am I supposed to tell Yora afterward?”

  He paused, goop dangling from his finger. “The truth. That I got myself killed doing something stupid.”

  “All right!” Lynnia got to her feet. “Don’t listen. Not that you ever do. And”—she glared at his pack—“not like you ask before borrowing my supplies. I’ve been keeping you out of trouble since they dumped you half dead on my doorstep, but what do I know?” She clomped up the stairs.

  Gyre turned back to the mirror and reached for more goop.

  Disguises were hard when you had a twenty-centimeter scar through your left eye. People tended to remember a thing like that. The muscles around the socket were too badly damaged for Gyre to use a glass eye, and in any case the vertical cut Va’aht’s power had drawn across his face twelve years ago was clearly visible as a long, raised line.

  Fortunately, among Lynnia’s many alchemical interests were the pastes and powders used by stage actors, and she’d taught Gyre a few of their tricks. About the only way to cover up a highly visible facial scar was with a bigger, even more visible facial scar, and Gyre had gotten quite creative with these. His current attempt was shaping up to be a masterpiece of the genre, a mottled mess of badly healed burns that covered his eye, his cheek, and part of his jaw. He combined it with a silver wig and a bit of facial hair backed with sticky gum, and he was fairly sure nobody would recognize him.

  He went upstairs an hour later, carrying a pack filled with useful supplies. Lynnia was in the sitting room, furiously drinking tea.

  “You look hideous,” she snapped.

  “Good,” Gyre said. “That’s the idea.”

  Lynnia scowled and stared into her tea. Gyre walked past her to the door.

  “Gyre.”

  He paused, hand on the latch. “What?”

  “What will you do if it is Doomseeker?”

  Gyre straightened slightly. “He’s the only man who’s ever found the Tomb and come back.”

  “So rumor has it, anyway.” Her skepticism was apparent. “You’re going to ask him to show you the way?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You really think there’s a power to match the Order, just lying buried in some four-hundred-year-old vault?”

  Gyre shrugged. “If what I need is anywhere, it’s there.”

  “What you need. Gyre…” She shook her head. “Never mind. Go get yourself killed.”

  It may be a long shot. But it’s the only chance I’ve got. And Doomseeker is the first step. Assuming it wasn’t a trap. Assuming Doomseeker was everything he was rumored to be. Assuming a fucking lot of things.

  Gyre thumbed the latch and let himself out.

  The bridge to the Smoking Wreckage was supported on a pair of too-slender resilk cables. Though Gyre knew intellectually that the Elder fiber was related to unmetal and the next thing to indestructible, it didn’t help the feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  He put that out of his mind and started across. Out over the Pit, there was a constant updraft of warm, dry air, laced with the faint smells of sulfur and acid. Gyre wasn’t the only one heading to the Wreckage as the last of the sunlight vanished, and the bridge bounced and twisted with the footsteps
of a small crowd. Gyre let out a silent sigh of relief when he could put his foot on solid stone again, even if it was the weathered, precarious stone of the pillar on which the Wreckage sat.

  The building was a rambling place, with a three-story hall having sprouted several extra wings and additions. Gyre headed for the main entrance, marked by a painted tavern sign depicting the building as a burnt-out ruin. The charred skeleton leaning on the bar, he thought, was a nice touch. Below it was a pair of double doors jammed open, leading to a long wood-paneled room centered on a heavily built circular bar. Other doors, some of them attended by discreet guards, led off to other parts of the establishment, for those who had more particular vices. At the far end, a grand staircase led up to the second floor.

  The general impression was of ostentatious but entirely fake luxury. Gyre looked over the place with a thief’s eye, noting the cheap, flaking gilt on the furniture, cut glass in the sparkling lamps, threadbare red carpet, and wallpaper already damp and bubbling in patches. If you squinted, though, you could pretend you were in some nobleman’s ballroom, or one of the grand hotels of Skyreach. Gyre guessed that for the clientele—mostly servants and guards of those who really could afford such splendor—this was the closest they could get.

  Only the bar itself looked like it was built to last, a ring-shaped counter of polished stone with all the barrels and bottles tucked safely inside it. Three uniformed bartenders circled, filling orders, and decithaler coins clattered and slid across the stone. Gyre joined the loose queue, quietly satisfied at the horrified, pitying looks he got out of the corner of his eye. This scar really is one of my better efforts.

  When he reached the bar, he found himself facing a boy no older than fourteen. The lad said something Gyre didn’t catch—he had the rolling, grating accent of the mountains, unsoftened by standard Republican pronunciation. Seeing Gyre’s scar, he raised his eyebrows quizzically. Gyre cleared his throat.

  Here goes nothing.

  “I would like,” he said, “a bottle of the Katre ’49.”