‘Our Emperor,’ he said gently. ‘I need to know before we leave.’
‘You’re leaving?’
‘For Lowespass.’
‘As Lightning?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes … yes … you must.’ She pulled a cloth from her smock pocket and dried her eyes. Then she walked back against the door and opened it. ‘Boots off. Coats off. Wipe your hands with phenol. Come in.’
The Emperor San lay alone in a small ward, with a silk sheet tabled over his legs, his arms by his sides and a rubber tube leading from a big glass bottle on a drip stand into the crook of his uninjured arm. His head was bandaged, his left eye and cheek. A lurid bruise covered that side of his face, but his eyes were closed.
Being so close to him for the first time I saw the details: the white hair on his dented old man’s chest, which hardly rose and fell. The liver spots on his ridged hands had coalesced into an archipelago of brown patches. Half-moons waned on his nails, which Rayne had cut short because he’d scraped them ragged on the roof fall. His cheeks were hollow, face tapered, lips dried to plaques, skin alabaster-pale, and none of his hair was visible under the bandages. He was keeping us immortal, but he was just a man.
‘He’s in a coma,’ said Rayne.
‘What do we do?’
‘Wait.’
‘How long?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Rayne,’ I said. ‘The world’s crying out for news.’
‘Tell them “soon”. Tell them I’m doing all I can!’
‘Can he hear us?’
‘No.’
Lightning said, ‘If the Castle can’t run Challenges …’
‘We can run them, all right,’ said Rayne. ‘We just can’t make victors immortal.’
‘Zascai will protest.’
‘Well, they should have thought of that before they destroyed the balance.’ She picked up the antiseptic cloth and ran it along the sidebar of the bed. ‘There’s nobody in and nobody out. And think of this when you’re fighting in Lowespass: if any one of us nineteen remaining Eszai dies, San can’t mend the Circle. We’ll all stay mortal. And that’s the end of us.’
‘When do you think he’ll wake up?’ I pressed.
‘Jant, I can’t even guess.’
‘But will he wake up?’
‘Maybe not, forever.’
I couldn’t discern his breathing. The indentations of his chest and withered wrinkles of his neck were so acutely clean they looked carved. You could see the capillaries in his delicate eyelids. They covered the perfectly round hollows of his eye sockets, into which his eyes had sunk. Their purple contrasted with the pure white hair of his eyelashes and brows.
‘My lord Emperor,’ said Lightning. ‘I am here … the flotsam of your system. I’ll do what you will.’
‘Hypoxia caused it,’ said Rayne. ‘No air in the rubble.’
‘And Tornado?’
‘Also in a hypoxic coma, but with a fractured skull to boot. He’s stirring, though.’
‘If he wakes up, San might wake up?’
‘Jant, our Emperor is an old man.’
I went to Tornado in the next ward and found him asleep. He was swathed in bandages, with medical notes on his bed for bicarbonate saline drip at a litre an hour. It was unnerving to see the giant so still.
Through the wall, I could hear Rayne and Lightning talking. ‘I’m expecting another wave of casualties,’ she said. ‘The really complicated ones. Suffocation, settled blood, rotten blood, dehydration, heart attack, kidney failure … Gayle’s still unaccounted for. And upstairs I have eighty patients including Serein. If any of you die at the Front it’ll be the end of the Circle.’
‘If we don’t fight Insects it’ll be the end of the Empire.’
‘I see that, but …’
‘We must reinforce Hurricane and Capelin. We must keep the manors working together; remind them we’re still their advisors. Try to keep our legitimacy or the mortals will turn on us. All kinds of bastards will rush into this vacuum. I can’t predict who, but I’m ready to slow them down.’
‘Is Jant staying?’
‘Yes. He’s dealing with the press and the manors, keeping everyone in contact. Kay Snow’s staying, of course. So’s the Architect, she’s working on getting the bodies out and some water restored before the heat … I’m leaving you Hayl, to take charge of security. She’s recruiting all the reporters arriving, into rescue parties. She has the Imperial Fyrd, she’ll protect you. The rebels might attack again.’
‘Rebels? Swallow died. It’s over – and she won.’
‘What about Connell?’
There was a pause. I imagine Rayne sighed. ‘Forget Connell! Lightning, are you the soothing oil that’ll heal the Empire, or one of the faults along which it will break?’
‘San knew I have the greatest chance of holding it together.’
‘All right. Jant will keep us in touch. I’ll tell you everything about San … and Tawny.’
‘The Circle is in your hands, Ella; I trust you …’
‘San could die any second.’
‘You’ll bring him back to life.’
‘Even if he wakes up, he won’t be in any state to govern.’
‘You’ll save him. You will. Come here.’
As I entered the room I saw him hug Rayne, with strong arms, then wings that looked stubby without the long flight feathers. Rayne wrinkled her nose, took one wing and raised it to peer under the coverts at the line of empty feather tracts.
‘Ouch. How are you?’
‘Sore. Stressed. I keep having flashbacks of the explosion … And I’m afraid of how Leon will react when I tell her.’
‘This will take five weeks.’
‘I know.’
Out of the window, I could see Kay hurrying in, across the rutted lawn, bringing another casualty on a backboard stretcher. It must be Gayle. The Doctor looked up, and leapt to action. ‘Out! Jant, Lightning. Goodbye – for now.’
‘Goodbye, Rayne.’
The stretcher bearers passed us, and we glimpsed the Lawyer’s unconscious body. Thankfully Gayle’s a Morenzian. None of the Awians will have survived being buried.
The sun, like an oil drop, oozed its way clear of Dace Gate South and hung, looking unnaturally large, as if sticking to the battlements by a run of colour. The Castle, like a bowl, continued to fill with smoke. Lightning and I walked across the splay of brown earth, more deeply furrowed and hoof-pocked as the tracks converged into the Dace Gate. I glanced back at the hospital, but the newly-cleaned windows reflected only the billows of rubble and I couldn’t see Rayne inside.
Saker looked back, too. Sometimes he does.
CHAPTER 45
Leaving
A light rain began to fall, washing the dust, soot, and the blood of our Emperor from the grass blades into the soil. It smelt of nitrate and petrichor; the sun shone a diffuse pewter blur through the white layer of cloud.
The grey stone gatehouse backed the scarlet of five hundred pennants that wound their poles above the heads of the cavalry. Lance points gleamed under films of condensation. Raindrops ran down the chestnut flanks of shivering horses and starred their hooves; shallow plaster-white streams braided from the spoil heap into the river, and dragonflies glided between us on the Vs of their wings.
Every roll of kit on the back of a thousand saddles darkened with the rain until the colours were crimson and moss-green against the washed-out pastel of the Castle’s round towers.
The rain, backlit by sunlight dazzling from a gap in the clouds, sprinkled on oilcloth coats over stirruped legs, across the path and over the roof of the Bridge of Size. A sudden gust blew it to a curve, drops spattered against my leather jacket, then all was still. The shower stopped as abruptly as it began.
Lightning stepped up onto Balzan. His rifle butt jutted from the saddle holster and a bow from the armoury slung on his back. He took his place at the head of the column, next to Mist.
Mist had just
finished kissing Tern’s hand. The rain had wet his shirt and through it you could see his taut muscles and many small, brown feathers overlapping on his shoulders. He’d been digging out survivors; his curly-topped hair was bedraggled and his fabulous clothes, filthy.
Lightning threw him the cigarette lighter and he caught it, went straight for his case, lit one and exhaled a cloud of smoke. His hand tipped back in a dandy gesture. ‘Listen.’
‘To what?’
‘To Carillon bell not striking the hour.’
The bell of Carillon was lying in the cistern with the stones of its belfry, water lapping into its bronze mouth, carrying the settling sediment. It was silent for the first time in seven hundred years.
San on his throne had kept order, now everything is chaos. Men and nature had an order; now it’s swung out of control. Father will bury daughter, and the sun spire no longer shines on high. We must try to keep the world together – strains will soon begin to widen the cracks and tear it apart. But the sunburst remains on our pennants and our shields.
I said, ‘Keep watching the telegraph. Any sensitive news, I’ll bring word of mouth.’
Lightning smiled thinly and waved his arm forward. His horse high-stepped; Tern and I moved back as he began to lead the column over the bridge towards the woods. The grind of hooves and clink of tack overcame the chirr of grasshoppers switched on by the heat.
The rain on the warm ground began to rise as mist, as their backs led away and the last forked tongue of the Castle’s banner licked the air. It was ten a.m., on Monday the first day of July, in the Year of Our War 2040.
Connell
I hid behind a tree trunk and watched soldiers pass. First came Saker and Mist, tall on their warhorses. Riding out like bats from the ruin of the Castle on the hill. They looked confident, not in any way broken. I dropped to the soil – they’re searching for me.
The telegraph said that the Emperor lives, so they’re still freaks, aren’t they? Jant’s going to drop in everywhere, interrogating all and sundry. But the Emperor’s in a coma and we’ve decimated the Eszai, so who knows what’ll happen?
I’ve told you these events because I want to set the record straight. I want to say what truly occurred because there’ll be too many inaccurate versions published and all kinds of crazy rumours will start flying around. I won’t let Jant distort it for the Castle’s purpose, because Swallow had a point. She had a very valid point and she wasn’t as black as he’s going to paint her.
Swallow tried to kill San because he killed her. That’s the true version of events and I hope it’ll clear your mind.
After San finished speaking to Rax’s troupe, he let them free. None of us Roses were caught in the collapse and, after his parley with the Emperor, Rax and his troupe are changed men. He’s hiding out in the Demesne, declaiming how wonderful San is, and our oath has broken down. No Rose cares to help another – it might lead to his arrest.
The spire has gone. San’s palace is destroyed, the Castle undermined, and blood’s soaking out of the Eszai’s corpses into the underground lake. I’m glad, but scared – there’ll be repercussions. We’re a very discernible group to blame and my tattoos are condemning evidence. So while the world’s still reeling, I’m nicking a horse and riding home to Vertigo. If they find me, they’ll have to fight.
I wish I’d never met Swallow, but I loved her with a passion. She’s made the world a powder keg. If the surviving Eszai can’t quench this burning fuse the Empire will soon blow itself apart.
She had the biggest ego of all. More than any Eszai. She had the greatest sense of entitlement and yet, all she’s managed to do is extinguish her own immortality. No one will ever want to play the operas, symphonies and concertos she’s left for posterity. All the art she’s produced in her lifetime will sink into the oblivion of the past. Because now, nobody will remember her as the greatest musician. They will tar her character and remember her, for all time, as a monster.
Also by Steph Swainston from Gollancz
The Year of Our War
No Present Like Time
The Modern World
Above the Snowline
The Castle Omnibus
Copyright
A Gollancz eBook
Copyright © Steph Swainston 2016
Map copyright © Todd Sanders 2016
All rights reserved.
The right of Steph Swainston to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in Great Britain in 2016 by
Gollancz
The Orion Publishing Group Ltd
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50 Victoria Embankment
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An Hachette UK Company
This eBook first published in 2016 by Gollancz.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978 0 575 08677 7
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Fair Rebel Page 39