by Ben Peek
Faise and Zineer Kanar, he thought, ought to be thankful for that.
8.
‘Do you know what I always want to say to him?’ Faise said, after Ayae had seen Heast out, after she had shut the door, after she had returned to the small dining room. ‘I want to tell him how much I love the mercenary novels. How he reminds me of Captain Cahelo, the main character in one of my favourite series. He even has a steel eye! I swear the character is based on him. I want to ask if it is, but I know he won’t tell me.’
‘You should listen to him,’ Ayae said, returning to her seat, ‘when he tells you to be careful – when he tells both of you that you have done enough.’
Next to his wife, Zineer laughed good-naturedly. ‘I told you,’ he said to Faise. ‘You owe me now.’
She slumped in her seat and gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘You could have said something else first,’ she said. ‘You could have said, “I’ve not read those books, can I borrow them?”’
‘I have enough to read,’ Ayae said.
‘They’re making you humourless.’
‘Life is making me humourless.’ She reached for her glass of wine. ‘You two aren’t helping,’ she said, using it to point at them.
They laughed again, but she wasn’t surprised. Since she had knocked on the door it had been difficult to make Faise and Zineer recognize the danger around them. To a degree, she understood: the soldiers who shadowed them, who splashed red paint over the stones outside their house, were a threat who had, as yet, done nothing more than be a nuisance. Nothing that they had done equalled what the couple had been exposed to only months before.
Ayae had been surprised to learn that, before Muriel Wagan’s letter arrived, Faise and Zineer had been broke. Worse: Faise told her that they had no food, that they were weeks away from losing the small house they owned and that they were looking at a future where they would be living in a shelter. Ayae had begun to tell her that she would have given them money, that Samuel Orlan would have helped, that Olcea might have as well, but Faise only smiled: ‘Would that have been before or after the Faithful laid siege to Mireea?’ The worst of it had come after Mireea had fallen, she added. Benan Le’ta had pushed the creditors and, the night before Lady Wagan’s letter arrived, a pair had visited them to give them two weeks’ notice.
Faise still spoke with anger, but Zineer, when he talked of it, did so with shame. He told her how he had been working for Lian Alahn before the problems began. He had been keeping accounts for a handful of small businesses on Mesi and Neela. ‘Nothing much,’ he said, and Ayae nodded when he told her that. Illaan had helped him get the work by recommending him to his father and, according to him, it had been a reluctant favour. ‘It went well,’ Zineer admitted, ‘until Le’ta made his push to take control of the Traders’ Union.’ He broke into the office that Zineer and Faise kept in Neela and stole the details of a dozen merchants. Within a week, the men and women were killed by ‘unknown’ assassins and, in the public fallout that saw Lian Alahn stripped of his powers for not vetting his workers properly – Zineer was accused of selling the details – he was ruined. ‘It was less than what happened to those poor merchants, but I couldn’t get a job at all afterwards,’ he said to her. ‘Faise and I made an official complaint to the Traders’ Union about defamation, but it did nothing but bring Le’ta’s angry eyes on us.’
Then Lady Wagan’s offer arrived.
They had come so close to ruin, Ayae suspected, that they did not see the new threats around them. They ignored what Xrie said to her, even after they agreed that he had been right about what they were doing. She had watched Captain Essa tell them that the Empty Sky would have more and more people on them, soon enough. They had told him not to worry. At least, after the Brotherhood left Yeflam and Essa’s prediction proved true, Ayae had been able to insist that the two accompany her to Nale when she visited Zaifyr.
The whole situation left her, as Faise said, humourless. She felt confined by her responsibilities and, worse, overwhelmed by them. She was not a political person. After she had returned from her meeting with Aelyn Meah, she said that she had gained nothing from it, and Zaifyr, Zineer and Faise had spent the evening telling her otherwise. It was they who made her realize that the office she had been given was a positive sign. ‘She has done it so you’ll be able to talk to the other Keepers, to sound them out,’ Faise said. ‘She has basically said that you have to build support for what you want and is giving you the opportunity to do so.’
Zaifyr had agreed. He had then added, his smile threatening to become a smile at her expense, that she could also begin researching Ger. ‘Some of his final words still survive,’ he said to her. ‘A lot was lost, but it’s a place to start.’
She had visited the Enclave’s library the next day and it was there, in a room that ran the length of the entire building, that she saw Aelyn Meah. The Keeper floated gently in front of the highest shelves, a point so high that it left her a smeared dot; but when Ayae entered, Aelyn drifted to the ground, a pair of books in her hands. ‘The Five Kingdoms were not kind to history,’ she said to Ayae, after she had led her to the empty seats and table in the middle. ‘We are slowly putting back what we can, but it is not easy. We have to rely upon historians, scholars, memories and, more often than not, my sister, Tinh Tu. In relation to Ger, the Cities of Ger have made it especially hard because they had an oral history. They taught a specific few how to read and it was they who told the stories. But what remains here is yours if it will help. I will also help you if I can.’
‘Thank you, but—’ She was unsettled that Aelyn knew what information she was looking for. She thought of the woman floating up the shelves, the woman who still had that eerie calm about her. ‘But it is fine.’
‘Ger was the Warden of the Elements,’ Aelyn said, as if she had not spoken. ‘His chains kept them subdued: there were no fires, no floods, no earthquakes, no storms unless Ger agreed to them. But he did not rule the sky or the sea. Those were the domains of others. Jul was the god of the sky. It was he who gave the gift of flight to the world. It is he who I will, one day, replace. If I can help you use the air currents in the way I can, I am happy to do so.’
Ayae remembered falling from the tower in Mireea. She remembered the wind tearing at her. ‘I . . .’ She stumbled over the words. ‘. . . thank you,’ she said, finally.
‘One last thing,’ Aelyn said, as she stood. ‘A small piece of advice. On Ghaam, there is a printer run by Eira, one of the Keepers of the Divine. She is one of the more vocal elements of us who are against the Mireeans leaving Wila. You would do well to visit her before the next Enclave meeting.’
‘She is called the Cold Witch,’ Faise told her, later. ‘You can imagine what they call her on the streets. Everyone loves a rhyme. But – well, I don’t think she will be very sympathetic to you. She was Fo’s partner. She had been for nearly two centuries.’
Alone at the table, Faise and Zineer having long gone to bed, Ayae stared at her glass, at the remains of wine within. If she held the glass tightly, she could make bubbles emerge, but she could not control it.
The thought was still there in the morning.
9.
When Kaqua brought up the dead priests, he did not mention Aelyn or the child. ‘Five people are dead and there are half a dozen witnesses,’ he said. Zaifyr sat in the first room, at the table where he always sat, a collection of red-and-white stones in front of him. ‘It took a lot of work to keep the story out of the print shops. A lot of requests. A lot of promises.’
‘You needn’t do that.’ Zaifyr picked up a red stone. The Pauper had poured them from his satchel wordlessly before he sat. ‘You do not have to hide anything.’
‘We are trying to ensure that peace is kept,’ he said. ‘It is not about you. Nor, I should add, is it about Leera and Yeflam. It is about ensuring that the streets in our cities are safe. That our rule of law is obeyed. Surely you can agree with that?’
‘Your streets are no safer than
they were before.’ The rock was not naturally formed. It was smooth and circular and constructed, but its colour did not come from paint. He curled his fingers around it and met Kaqua’s gaze. ‘Why has Aelyn allowed the Leeran priests in?’
‘Your sister does not rule Yeflam,’ he said. ‘You seem not to understand that, Qian. Yeflam is ruled by the Enclave.’
He smiled faintly. ‘Then why would the Enclave let them in?’
‘Because we wish to make peace a priority,’ he said. ‘I keep repeating this to you, but I feel that you do not believe me, or that you do not agree.’
‘I never met any of the priests that existed after the War of the Gods,’ Zaifyr said, after a moment of pause, letting Kaqua’s words pass without comment. ‘There was a shaman in the village where I was born, but she was not the same. She lost her faith. Aelyn, Eidan, Tinh Tu: they are all the same as me, because they were born after the war, after the priests had died. But Jae’le – my brother – saw them. He knew them. When I first met him, he told me stories about them. He told me about an old priest who had served the Leviathan. He said that after the ocean turned black, after the last god died, after the Leviathan died, the priest beached his ship on the edge of what would become Sooia. His ship was huge, Jae’le said. One of the largest that he had ever seen, if not the largest. But when he came upon the ship, it was not lying on the edge of the ocean and spread across the ground. No, it was floating in the sky. Because he is my brother, he climbed up to it. Once he pulled himself over the rail, he came face to face with absolute carnage, with thousands of bodies lying on the decks and in the rooms of the ship. Men, women, children: they were all dead. Jae’le told me that what struck him was that no one had died violently. It was as if they had been walking, or eating, or sleeping, and their life had just been drawn away. He said that it was like a tide around him. He followed it until he reached the captain’s cabin. Inside, he found the priest. He was sitting in a chair, his hair grey and long and twisting into his beard. His flesh had sunk into his bones and it was clear that he had not moved for some time. Jae’le thought that he had been sitting there for about twenty, thirty years. Since the Leviathan died, he said. When he approached him, the priest opened his eyes. He was not afraid. He said, The land and ocean are impure, just as the air is. All that is pure is the life of those who believed and I shall be sustained by them.’
‘Did he kill him?’ Kaqua asked.
‘Of course.’ Zaifyr tossed the red stone on the table. It thudded, then rolled up against the others. ‘What story of my brother does not end in death?’
‘Yours.’ Before he could answer, the Pauper picked up one of the white stones. ‘He did not kill you. He merely imprisoned you. Do you think he would be pleased by what you are doing now?’
‘You haven’t listened,’ Zaifyr said. ‘You let priests in here. Priests who are not interested in keeping any kind of peace, just like their god.’
‘You are so sure that they want war.’
‘War is how faith is spread. You are old enough to know that.’
‘War spreads many things,’ Kaqua said. ‘I saw that when the Five Kingdoms were made. I am not interested in seeing that return.’
‘Who is?’
He spread his hands: the white rock lay in his left palm, his right empty.
Zaifyr grunted. ‘Are the rocks for the trial?’ he asked, changing the subject.
‘Yes,’ Kaqua replied. ‘We have been making them. The colour comes from a dye we mix into the mud before they’re put into a kiln. I have them here today as a sign of intention to have a trial, but after the deaths of those priests and those men . . . it may be that they are not used at all. I assure you that they will not be handed out if there is panic in the streets.’
‘You told me you kept it from being printed.’
‘Yes, but you cannot treat Yeflam as if it is yours, to abuse and to treat as you will,’ he said. ‘There are laws. There is a society. You have to understand that, Qian.’
‘That’s not my name.’
‘Do you understand what I am saying?’
Zaifyr did understand. After he had returned to Aelyn’s house, after he had walked past the guards made from wind, he prowled through the rooms, he walked up the stairs, he walked until he ended up in one of the towers. There he had stood in the cool night air and watched the morning’s sun rise, angry at himself. He could hear the whisper of the haunt he had empowered, her plea as he drew the power out of her, as he rendered her powerless, as he returned her to the horror of her death. He had seen the three men she killed on the street when he left the hotel. He had heard their whispers. But what made him angry with himself was the absolute failure of what he had done. He had killed those people and used the haunt for nothing. Oh, not nothing, he thought with self-disgust. He had reminded the child that he was here, that he stood against her, that he was moving against her.
‘I understand,’ he said, finally.
10.
Cold Press, Eira’s printer, was located at the heart of Ghaam, in a beautiful two-storey building made from brown stone and dark, polished wood. Tall windows of frosted glass had been installed on the top floor and, from a distance, its reflection guided you through the streets – streets that contained half a dozen bookstores, two additional presses, and a series of restaurants and cafes – as if it were the only real business in the area.
A chill drew Ayae down the street, a chill that only she could feel. She made no mention of it to either Faise or Zineer, but when the three had stopped across the road from Cold Press, Faise offered to go in with her. Zineer offered a moment later. Ayae declined both. She knew they had agreed to come with her today to provide moral support and, for a moment, as the carriage they rode in on crossed the bridge from Mesi to Ghaam, she had been tempted to ask them to accompany her. But, a handful of steps away from the wood-and-glass door, she knew otherwise. ‘You’ll be all right here without me?’ she asked.
‘It’s a very popular cafe,’ Faise said.
‘We’ll be fine,’ Zineer added. ‘Unless you want us to come with you.’
She shook her head and walked across the road.
A bell on the door rang when she entered Cold Press and rang again when the door closed. Inside, a simple and elegant office waited.
Ayae had expected a printing press, but what she found instead was a series of dark-mauve lounges and polished coffee tables. On the one closest to her was a collection of papers, the top one bearing a caricature of Aned Heast and Lady Wagan on the front. The former was defined by his steel leg, while the latter was defined by weight and, Ayae thought, age. Both stood in a whale’s carcass, a sail made from the tattered remains of swords and a flag that was stitched together from cloaks – Yeflam cloaks, Ayae suspected. A caption beneath said, ‘How the Captain and the Lady of the Ghosts left the Floating Cities’.
‘One of the papers we printed today,’ said Eira, her pronunciation clipped and precise. ‘It is called the Ghaam Daily. Quite popular.’
She descended the stairs from the first floor, the palest person Ayae had ever seen. It was not just her skin, which was smooth, but the long, simple white dress she wore. She had pale-blonde hair, almost white, and she wore no jewellery but a simple silver bracelet that sat loosely around her left wrist. She was, to Ayae’s eye, a beautiful woman, her body a collection of slim long limbs and, for a moment, as Eira left the stairs, as she drew closer to her, Ayae was conscious of her own leather trousers, her black shirt, her scuffed leather boots and, of course, her sword.
‘Ayae, I presume?’ Eira smiled, but there was no warmth in it. ‘I had heard your name before you arrived here. You were Samuel Orlan’s apprentice, not so long ago. It was quite an honour for someone with no last name.’
That’s how it would be, then. ‘You don’t have one either,’ she said without pause.
‘Santano. My family originated from Nmia. They are still there, actually. But I stopped using it when I became a Keeper of the Divine fo
ur hundred years ago.’
Ayae turned, reached for the door.
‘You’re leaving already?’ Eira asked.
‘Maybe you mistook me for someone else,’ Ayae said, her hand on the handle. ‘But I did not come here for this.’
‘No, you came to petition for the Mireean people.’
She released the door handle and, despite herself, turned back. ‘I did.’
‘Tsk. You should have walked out,’ Eira said. She stood next to a glass case a handful of steps from the door. ‘I might have respected you for that.’
‘They don’t deserve to be there,’ she said, saying the words, but knowing—