“If you doubted your own plan from the beginning,” said Rel, “I see little reason to trust you.”
“I was an engineer, never an idealist,” said Qurunad. “As your civilisation developed, I saw a time when you would remaster the old technologies and magics. Without our guidance you began to draw overly much on the world spirit that is the source of all magic, and weakened the wards upon the gates. The Draathis have been waiting for the same thing. The end comes. They will come this time in migration, not invasion.”
“Out there there are thousands of modalmen,” said Rel. “Who are they? They are not men. Did you bring them here as you brought us?”
“In a manner of speaking,” said the Brass God. “We made the modalmen as warriors. They were forged upon anvils of pure will to be the greatest threat to the Draathis. They are strong, resistant to the heat of the Draathis’ blood, and imbued with a life force that sings with magic. As iron is anathema to magic, so too is magic anathema to iron. They think of themselves as the true men, as do you. You are both correct. Their culture is closer to the original. Your form is. They are you. They were once like yours.”
“I see,” said Rel calmly. ‘You said you were expecting me?’
“My kind had machines with limited abilities to predict future events,” said Qurunad. “There have been several times when a man of the Kingdoms looked to be coming here, only for his path to diverge and the present that emerged to differ from the future I saw. When my machines provided model futures in which you arrived here, I had little hope. That is why I say perhaps your presence is fate. Perhaps the One hears my prayers, finally; after all these hundreds of thousands of years, he looks to his first children again, these worlds of Will and Form.’
‘Then why did you not warn us?’
‘I cannot leave this place. I needed someone like you to take a message back to the Kingdoms and inform them of the coming of the modalmen, the Draathis... all of it. If you do not do this, there will be war between the modalmen and the people of your lands. If you can convince the governments of your kind to allow the modalmen through, and fight by their side, you may stand a chance in stopping the Draathis. Your technology is not as well progressed as I hoped, but there are many of you. If there is no unity of purpose...” He stared at Rel. “Well, you have seen the battle between the Draathis and my kind. You are a soldier. You know what the Draathis will do to your armies. You will need every ally.”
“How will I deliver this message?” said Rel.
“I shall aid your escape. There is a phenomenon the modalmen call the Mountain’s Breath. The modalmen see it as a sacred blessing. While it occurs, they will not stop you.”
“But you said yourself your powers of prediction are imprecise. How can you be sure? I won’t be able to simply walk out of here. A lot of them are itching for an excuse to kill me.”
“The breath of the mountain is not weather. It is the product of the machines like these you see around you. They will do nothing to stop you, because they will not be able to. The Mountain’s Breath was a device to teach the modalmen new things, to imbue them with more strength, to ensure their loyalty. It had many applications. None of them work now, but the trance can still be induced. It is one of the last controls I have over the modalmen.”
Rel leaned his elbows onto his knees and gripped his head. “This is nonsense. Even if I make it back to the Hundred, I will not be believed. I was sent to the Glass Fort for an indiscretion with a lady. I was a laughing stock. Even if my record were clean, I am only a captain in a single army. There are scores of them in the Kingdoms. My word is worthless. If I survive the journey.” He looked into the Brass God’s chilling face. “If you created the modalmen, they are yours to command. Can you not ask them to deliver this message? Can you not go yourself? Why do you not go below and command them?”
“To answer your second question first, this body is dependent on the citadel. It draws power from the glimmer matrix of the buildings and the roots it puts into the mountain. If I left, it would die within three days. I have attempted to access your telesending network to send a direct message to your rulers, but your technology is so far behind ours I cannot make a signal that will reach your devices over the interference generated by the Black Sands. If I were a mage, then there would be other means, but I am not, and so there are not. To answer your first question, the modalmen are beyond my control. They have changed, and divided into two principal factions.”
“I noticed,” said Rel. “Half of them think I’m a pet, the other half want to eat me.”
“They hate the Draathis because they were bred to hate them, but I cannot order them as I might once have. I am no general, in any case. If I were to go to them, this Brauctha who leads their man-eating clans might well destroy me. Their culture is of conquest. He who slays a being takes all his possessions by right. I cannot let that happen. The moot underway now will determine how they approach the Kingdoms. The balance of opinion among them is shifting toward open hostility. Many moderates see the Hundred as an obstacle to their goal of destroying the Draathis. They remember the betrayal of the northmen in the last war and see no difference between your peoples. Your actions toward the modalmen in the interim have not helped. If the Kingdoms respond to the modalmen’s arrival peaceably, it will greatly strengthen the faction who regard you as lesser men rather than beasts, and reassure those with doubts. If we are fortunate, the man-eaters will not win out and you will convince your kind to allow the horde through the Gates of the World to fight with you. Once they see your weapons, they will not wish to engage in war, and it will be settled. Then our position will be tenable, and the world may survive another age.”
“If, if, if,” said Rel. “This plan is desperate! Fucking hells!” He slapped his knee. “You are a poor god.”
“I am no god at all. These are desperate times. I am taking a terrible gamble on you, Rel Kressind. I have watched your people spread across this world that was once our own. You burrow into the corpses of our cities like maggots. Your machines burn the souls of our dead. How do you think that makes me feel?”
Rel frowned in question.
“What do you think the glimmer is?” said the Brass God. “It is the crystallised remains of the souls of the Morfaan and the Children of the Five, trapped and scattered across the world when these lands were blasted by the Draathis. The final, most terrible revenge of the Draathis on we Morfaan. And you burn it like coal. I should hate you, but I see no choice but to help you. I prefer to look to the middle past, when our peoples enjoyed an age of harmony, when neither were slaves nor masters. We can have that again.”
“And it all depends on me,” said Rel. He rubbed his face.
“Unfortunately, yes. Will you do it?”
“There is another issue. My people in the wagons. Why have they been brought here? Shkarauthir says they are gifts for you. I can see no use that you might have for them.”
The Brass God lowered his head. “I was afraid you would ask that.”
“Why?”
“It is better you do not know. Reconsider your question. Forget them. They are lost.”
“Really? Because I would love to know what is worse than being eaten alive.”
The Brass God hesitated. “We made the modalmen from your people.”
“You said.”
“The modalmen have no gender. There are no women, no infant modalmen. They are immortal, so long as they are not slain in battle, but they fight often among themselves.”
“Then there should be very few of them.” Rel leaned forward and pointed at Qurunad. “Unless you are adding to their numbers.”
The Brass God nodded. “I change a handful of humans every century. A man deemed worthy of transformation is ripped apart down to the most fundamental level and refashioned. When they are rebuilt they remember their old selves sometimes, but the man they were is effectively dead. They will gladly turn on what they once loved. The machinery is here, in the citadel. I intend to use
it again. It is cruel, but necessary. Without it, the modalmen would cease to exist. And they need to increase their numbers.”
Rel shook his head in disbelief. “I cannot let that happen.”
“You must. There are a few thousand human beings in the cages. Think how many will die if you do not make your way home. I will die if I do not reinforce the clans. Brauctha will take what he wants. Then no human will be safe. Do you want that?”
Rel stared at him. He hated Qurunad then. He hated fate and circumstance and all the powers that had led him to this moment. Rationally, there was no decision to be made. Rationality was the order of the day in Ruthnia. Rel had never cared for it. It made men inhuman.
For the first time since he was made an officer, Rel felt the burden of responsibility. Before there had always been someone else to make the hard decisions. This was his alone to make.
He looked at his hands. Hands that held the world.
“I suppose I have no choice,” he said.
“You decide well,” said Qurunad, in relief. “Watch for the Mountain’s Breath. I will bring it now. The trance effect begins with a nimbus of light around the peak above the Citadel. When it blows hot, and the sand rides in sheets within the valley, then you should go.”
“What if I am mistaken?”
“This will be like no wind you have ever witnessed. You cannot mistake it. A storm will follow. This will be the first of the dangers you must overcome.”
“Right,” said Rel.
The Brass God walked to the centre of the lawn. Gears squealed in his damaged leg. He gestured that Rel follow.
“Please, Goodfellow Kressind. Do not attempt to help your people here. It will greatly reduce your chances of success.”
An oval of light opened at the Brass God’s side.
“A short range gate, similar to the Road of Fire you rode upon. It will take you back to the temple,” said the Brass God.
Rel nodded, and stepped toward the gate. The light was harsh, but somehow it did not hurt his eyes. He paused. “I can’t just leave my people behind,” he said to the god. “I’ve come all this way to help them.”
“You must abandon them,” said the Brass God. “The fate of the whole world depends upon it.”
The gate swelled. The light swallowed Rel.
A SHIFT IN his gut, and Rel found himself in total darkness. By striking repeatedly at his flint he discovered he was back in the temple as the Brass God had promised. His weapons and last torch were in a pile at the entrance. The sad howl of the wind from the mountain was oppressive after the quiet of the citadel, and the dark pressed in on him, eager to devour the tiny noises he made. By the time he got the torch alight he was fighting a gnawing dread.
Firelight shone off cracked reliefs and broken statues. There were many in the kingdoms who would have spent what little light the torch provided in exploring the temple; such places were highly prized by academics and grave robbers alike. Rel only wished to leave.
He had to race the burning of his torch back. The wind blew stronger on the way down, nearly putting out the flames. Intermittent darkness when the torch guttered limited the speed of his descent. There seemed to be more side passages than he recalled. From them the wind moaned with a multiplicity of voices. By the time he emerged from the crack the wind was blasting from it. It pushed at his back, hurrying him along, and he feared he might be swept over the edge to his death. Stumbling at its shoving through the cave entrance, he threw himself to the side before he was hurled off the cliff.
Drauthek looked up at him. It was dark, and he had lit the fire. He was still chewing on strips of dried meat.
The White Moon was high, its brilliant light turning the Earth silver, while the Twin behind remained a looming black. On the Twin fires danced at random. It was so close Rel could have touched it.
“See god then?” said Drauthek.
Rel nodded his head dumbly.
“He happy. Mountain Breath start. Good sign. Not if blow you away though!”
The giant modalman got up, his blanket sliding from his back. He put the lid back on the water urn, and stamped out his fire.
“Come. We go back now. You tired, but this no place to stay for night. Too holy, and too dangerous.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The Second House
“MY DEAR, I am sure that there will be enough support to get this bill through the Second House. After that, I would expect defeat in the Third.”
Master Fendol was an earnest man of middle years, though he looked younger, being without the belly good living had bestowed on many of his peers. His small realm was the ladies’ salon of the Sunderdown Palace. Custom demanded women wait within its confines while the Houses’ gathering rituals were completed. Fine plasterwork and delicate brass sculptures decked the room in opulence, a sign of Karsa’s growing wealth, but it oppressed her. Her attention strayed constantly to the double doors leading onto the ladies gallery. Shortly, they would be opened, and she would be able to watch the gears of Karsan government at work, grinding up her proposals into nothing.
“I intend to take it all the way to the end,” said Katriona defiantly. “And if it does fail, then I shall try again until I do succeed.”
“She will!” said Demion. “And I will support her every step of the way.”
“Thank you, husband.”
“That is admirable, goodlady,” said Fendol, “but it will do little but waste your time and money.”
A small group of sympathisers sat with them. Mill owners who shared Katriona’s concern for the plight of the city’s workers. A couple were there simply because they saw advantage for themselves in tighter regulation of the labour market. Katriona counted maybe nine of the eleven as sincere. They were all men, because female owners like herself were a rarity.
“You should count your victories. Your threats alone have led to a better application of the existing laws,” said Goodfellow Martenion, of the famous weaving family. “Although I wish for more myself, you should not be too disheartened.” He patted her on the hand gently.
Demion pointedly took his wife’s hand to prevent further impropriety.
“Many children are begging on the streets, as factory owners expel them to avoid prosecution under the new law,” said Demion.
“Existing laws, dear husband,” Katriona corrected him.
“Well, whether existing or not, you have caused a stir. I myself have become involved, and have our agents scouring the city for such waifs. We will offer them a home, and employment, and schooling.”
“You are involved, Demi?” asked Goodfellow Brask, who knew Demion Morthrock socially, although took a far more active interest in his factories than Demion did in his own.
“Yes, even I,” said Demion. “Katriona here has changed me for the better.”
“Well, if she can do that,” said Brask. “She can do anything.”
“I believe she can,” said Demion Morthrock fiercely.
“If we cannot succeed politically,” said Katriona, “we shall lead by example, until the others are shamed into action.”
“Well said!” said Martenion.
“My dear goodfellow,” said Olwin Barnes, the richest of them all, “that is all well and good for the likes of us to promise, but not all of us have such deep pockets. The law has to change, or it will be for nought.”
“We are willing to lend you our support, but only if the proposals become law,” said another. “If they do not, then those firms that adopt the new standards will be penalising themselves. Our costs will increase enormously, leaving us at the mercy of our competitors.”
“That, my goodfellow, is a defeatist attitude, and though the easier path, it will lead to greater troubles further down the road,” said Martenion.
Watching all this quietly was a man in far plainer garb than the others. He was rougher featured from a life of manual labour. He was, in matter of fact, poor, and everything about his appearance and demeanour screamed it. He was unc
omfortable in the richness of the lounge, but bullishly ignored it.
“You have the support of the Agglomerated Labour Associations, my goodlady,” said the man. “When the time comes, and the factories of every man who stands against you come a halt, my people will keep on working in yours.”
“Goodman Monimus, your support is appreciated,” said Brask, “but you people have no power.”
“Who turns the metal, who weaves the cloth? Who repairs the machines and moves the coal and tends the drays? We can make that stop,” said Monimus.
“Your movement is in its infancy.”
“But growing fast. There will be a reckoning. There is only so much the people will take before they rise up.”
“I am uncomfortable being associated with this revolutionary,” said Brask.
“We are all revolutionaries, goodfellow,” said Martenion.
A woman approached the group demurely. She smiled in the socially approved manner, and dipped a curtsey to Katriona.
“Goodlady Kressinda-Morthrocksa,” she said.
“Goodlady Thrivena-Andasy,” Katriona said.
“My husband sent me to say that there are those that are sympathetic to your cause, who believe what you say is right. Or so I hear. Many perhaps who would back you, but who fear that, should they act before the law demands it, they will be ruined.”
“It is the right thing to do,” said Katriona.
“Sometimes the right thing to do is very much the wrong thing to do,” said Goodlady Thrivena-Andasy. “Good day.”
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