The Weight of the World

by Tom Toner

  Palustris was running his fingers through his coiled beard, thinking. “Now, please, Amaranth, let me see. Orestias? All is well there— we’ve pushed the Secondlings back as far as Padarevo, but the front is dangerous, continually being retaken by the enemy. The other places— Sapes, Ihtiman—they are not safe at all, not even for—if you’ll excuse me—one such as yourself.”

  “Not safe?” Jatropha asked. “You are referring to Skylings?”

  Palustris nodded emphatically, bringing his huge hands together in a snapping clap to dispel the demons they discussed. “Starlings, Sky-lings, Firmlings, they’re everywhere. Admiralty spies have spotted hundreds in the woods around Uzice alone. It is likely that citadel is already taken by them.”

  “What would they want with a city?” Eranthis asked, forgetting herself, her imagination alive. Of all the things Jatropha had told her of the wider Firmament, the hideous Prism-people fascinated her the most.

  Palustris turned to her and bowed lightly, visibly aware that he had forgotten to include her fully. As an acolyte she was to be granted nearly the same reverence as an Immortal under the inviolable statutes of the Firmament.

  “My apologies, Eranthis.” He pursed his wide mouth, thinking. “Skylings, from my limited experience of them, will take whatever is not guarded for themselves out of nothing more than an infernal jealousy— am I not right, Amaranth?”

  Jatropha nodded vaguely, still seemingly absorbed in the paper flags of recent conquests hanging from the map walls.

  “Take this bowl,” Palustris continued, lifting it from the tray. “If a Skyling were present now, Firmament forbid, he would make a claim for it, seeing that it was precious to me in some way. Once he had it, though, he might simply throw it away, or use it for a chamber pot, or something equally vile.”

  “But why are they so jealous?” Eranthis asked. “Because they may take nothing for themselves?”

  “Precisely—they own nothing that has not been meted out to them by the Amaranth in their unending charity. But they do not understand that it can only be this way—just as we of the Threheng are indebted to the generosity of our betters, our forebears, so they must be, too.” He clapped his hands again, keeping the spirits at bay.

  Eranthis nodded, pleased with herself. She knew the Jalan did not think much of Southerners, not even those who supported their War of Liberation, and was glad to have impressed the commodore in some small way with her understanding. Ever the teacher’s pet, she wished to continue, but sensed from the way Jatropha returned his attention to Palustris that they had more important things still to discuss.

  “I would ask more of you, Commodore, before we make our way to Izmirean.”

  “Please,” Palustris responded, setting down the bowl he’d used for his explanation.

  “It has come to my attention,” Jatropha said, displaying, Eranthis noted now, none of the vagueness and frivolity that had so defined him when he had lived disguised among them in the cove, “that your soldiers use many of the finest gardens in the Tenth for resupply, foraging as they like on private land.”

  Palustris looked to the floor, appearing to choose his words carefully. “This is not something I encourage, Amaranth, you must understand. But the war is not over. Our Lord General Elatine is missing, not dead. Legions must take refreshment where they land or they shall mutiny, no matter how noble the cause.”

  “And with my say so they may, Commodore,” Jatropha said, his words taking on a darker tinge that filled Eranthis suddenly with strange pride. “But only from selected land. They must leave the Tenth Province in peace or they shall find violence here.”

  Palustris was nodding uneasily, as if he had long expected this request. “Yes, yes, Amaranth, as you say. But our victory has been postponed. Not even you—if you’ll pardon me—can predict the course of the Liberation.” He paused for breath, looking off to the sea through the window. “Unless something can be done about the—” he paused, clapping again “—the Skylings, we shall be forced to dig into our annexation here, perhaps for years. This war was never going to be simple, but I fear it may be one of the longest fought in centuries—heavens, it already is—unless something can be done to further aid us.”

  “Calm yourself, Palustris,” Jatropha whispered. The giant’s frown immediately softened, bringing a childlike quality to his snaggle-toothed features. “I have already secured the land. It will feed and clothe your troops for ten years, if managed well. I have the deeds here.” He motioned to Eranthis for his satchel and she passed it to him.

  “Added to the newly opened trade routes from the Scarlet Lands and elsewhere, I don’t believe you shall experience any difficulties with supply from here on in.”

  Eranthis watched him pass over the metal sheets of the land titles, quite aware that the Jalan regiments were Jatropha’s instruments here in the Nostrum Provinces, the blunt force with which he had thought to clear a route to the Second. Now, with news that the Inner Provinces were overrun, he would need to beat a new path to the Berenzargol family. Eranthis thought hard, unsure how in all the world they could get to where they needed to be by the beginning of the new year. There was only one route, really, and it was a route she didn’t like the sound of.

  Palustris sat back, holding the deeds to the light to inspect them. He waved a finger absently and a presence, announced by footfalls on the polished wood, crept into the room.

  “Admire my entertainments while I read these, will you?” He bent further over the metal sheets, his claw dragging along the text.

  Eranthis and Jatropha watched the long, thin performer advance, prancing across the shimmering floor. The person’s face was hidden behind a gold, heart-shaped mask, their body entirely wrapped in white, red-trimmed silk. Eranthis saw after a moment that the dancer was no Melius; it had a tail.

  They watched as the performer circled them, jumping high enough to clack its slippered heels together in mid-air and pirouetting on the spot five, six, seven times. She saw its hands, noticing how some of the fingers of the gloves appeared to be empty, and wondered again what sort of person was hiding beneath all that white silk.

  Palustris came to the end of the final deed, stacking them carefully on the spare seat beside him. Eranthis had only lately noticed there was no music to accompany the dancer’s performance. The commodore looked around at the dancer and cleared his throat. The person landed neatly from its leap without missing a step and bowed, then strutted out.

  “A present, that one. Meant to bring luck.” He leaned closer to Jatropha, his rumbling voice pitched low. “Though I must say I prefer yours.” He bared his chops at Eranthis in a huge smile and ran his claws over the deeds. “These will do very nicely.”

  “I am pleased that you are pleased, Palustris,” Jatropha said, swinging his skinny white legs from the chair’s edge.

  The commodore glanced at his Thirdling servants, standing motionless near the window. “Was that a Wheelhouse I saw down at the harbourside? A new acquisition of yours?”

  Jatropha shrugged. “Rickety old thing. I got it at a good price.”

  “A big one, five-chambered, by the looks of it?”

  Jatropha nodded thoughtfully. “You keep a close eye on Mersin from up here.”

  Palustris gestured to a large shuttered lens secured in a wooden frame that stood by one of the further windows. “So you’re to have more travelling companions? On your journey?”

  Jatropha shook his head. “Storage, with a cupboard for any lodger willing to pay their way along the road.”

  Palustris watched him carefully for a moment, the way Eranthis had seen idiots attempt to spot a lie. Then the giant looked away, examining his claws. “You are good with your money. Does very old age bring that? Financial wisdom? I suppose it does.”

  “Come now,” Jatropha said. “Is this not a well-paid commission for you?”

  “Oh, well enough.” He looked at Eranthis, clearing his throat again. “But since our Lord General’s disappearance not one
thing is certain, and between us three I’d like to take my leave before we become entrenched here.” He stared desultorily out at the sea. “There’s no spirit left in this war. We came further than anyone expected—the First squirms in our grip. Let them thrash out terms. Your people, in the Firmament, they will write the statutes anyway, as they always have.”

  Eranthis looked at the commodore’s long profile, framed against the far view of the sea.

  Elatine’s disappearance had only inflamed the war, splitting the Threheng’s capital legion into a host of battalions fighting beneath eight separate Lord Commanders, each intent on a slice of the First for themselves. It was assumed by many on both sides that Elatine had been killed somewhere and would never be found, though more outlandish theories—that he’d been secretly paid off by King Lyonothamnus, run off with the Skylings or even joined the ranks of the Amaranthine— abounded. Whispers of a Firstling secret weapon that would end the war at a stroke had grown popular among the Jalan in the Tenth: the reason, they said, for Elatine turning his coat. Eranthis, from her limited studies under Jatropha, assumed the obvious: that Elatine was simply dead, another corpse tucked into a bird-pecked heap on the outskirts of the Second, and that the war would now last a good deal longer, if it ever really ended at all.

  What Eranthis knew beyond a doubt was that these giant people, while outwardly amenable to an acolyte of the Immortal, were not her friends. Under no circumstance could she mention the baby, not here in the presence of the commodore, not anywhere beyond the boundaries of her own home. The Jalan were still at war with the ruling Provinces; any mention of a healthy Second-Tenthling in the Province, no matter how well its aristocratic lineage might be concealed, would spell the end of their collaboration with Jatropha and perhaps even result in the slaughter of those who had protected the child. This was not some suspicion of Eranthis’s—the Amaranthine had told her so himself before boarding. Arabis, Pentas’s child with the Plenipotentiary Callistemon, would need to remain her most closely guarded secret.

  IZMIREAN

  The sea cog left Izmirean for Artemida at dusk, slipping through the twilight and out into wider seas. Eranthis joined Jatropha at the sails where he stood with other travellers, their coloured skins aglow in the last of the sunset, to glimpse the lights of the port and its fleet of Thre-heng ships dwindling into blue darkness. It had been a day’s sail around the headland from Mersin, and she was impatient now to be on her way.

  Jatopha pointed to a solitary, wavering light on a hill beyond the harbour.

  “There was a castle on that hill, once.”

  Eranthis nodded, as if she knew. “You saw it?”

  “Yes.” He glanced up to her, smiling his innocent old smile. “This part of the world used to be the main exporter of figs, did you know that? People of varying shapes and sizes have sold figs in Izmirian for over fifteen thousand years.”

  She shook her head ruefully, glad her sister had chosen to stay below. Jatropha’s lectures were known to bore poor Pentas to tears.

  “Of course, there’s considerably less sea traffic from the west now. I wouldn’t be surprised if the port becomes a good deal smaller in the next few centuries.”

  Eranthis nodded, remembering that they wouldn’t see land again for three whole days and nights. She took in the luminous, lantern-bright blue of the sunken sun, her back to the receding port as she stared into the west. This was now the farthest she had ever been from her home in the Seventh. She hoped she’d be gone a long time. The Westerly Provinces, she thought, breathing in the fluttering wind that coursed from the dark sea. The sight of winter stars curving over the dimming light tingled a chill across her thickening skin; cool eternity rolling ever onwards.

  They had left Commodore Palustris and his ship at Izmirian, content with the successful auction of his leviathan, unaware of the real reason for their journey to the Western borders. Though she knew Palustris would never have given them his consent, she felt a certain sadness that she’d had to lie to the giant, and a lingering fondness for him. Palustris had loaded their new Wheelhouse with supplies as a gesture of goodwill, expressing his disappointment that he couldn’t be of more use to Jat-ropha and his Acolytes, and wished Eranthis a particularly sweet farewell, kissing her surprisingly lightly on the cheek and bidding her a swift return to safer waters.

  As she went below, her mind wandered back to Jatropha’s other properties, the catalogue of houses and estates he and Palustris had discussed. Perhaps they really had just been a ruse on his part, a way of gauging the route north-west. She would not ask him: the longer she spent with the Amaranthine, the more keenly she began to feel his ridicule. Jatropha had, she suspected, simply spent too long alone, too much time mumbling to himself on empty Province roads, his inner thoughts always in final and total agreement with one another. Unnatural lifetimes as a hermit had twisted him, sullying the charm she could see just below the surface. Already her sister had lost all patience with him. It would be a long trip.

  The sea cog’s lower decks were made up of plain wooden compartments, each with a lockable door and two sturdy shelves on which to sleep. Blankets and furniture were not provided: the girls had chosen to bring chairs from their goods in the hold and a small metal table for Quarterly cinnamon tea.

  She knocked once, waiting and hearing the door being slowly unbolted. Everyone in the neighbouring cells seemed pleasant, even affluent. There shouldn’t have been any need, but her sister had endured too much for someone of twenty-three to leave a door—any door—unlocked for long.

  Pentas’s small face appeared through the crack.

  “Master Knowitall with you?”

  Eranthis shook her head.

  The door opened. The flame in a lantern flickered dimly from the top bunk, enlivened by Eranthis’s sudden entry, responding to the beat of her heart. The cell was painted a muted shade of pink, the brush marks hurried, barely concealing the untreated wooden planks. The cheapest room, Eranthis suspected, annoyed with herself for insisting on something modest.

  “Did you ask him to move us?” Pentas asked, picking up a woollen bundle. A tiny orange hand reached out of it to curl around her finger.

  “Not yet.” She sat down to pour the tea, conscious of her sister’s filthy look. “It’s too late to ask them to do anything tonight.”

  “First thing in the morning,” Pentas said, her attention at last distracted by the bundle in her lap. Eranthis drained the tea jug, tapping the strainer with an internal relief, and glanced at the child.

  Pentas hadn’t taken to motherhood the way most girls did, at first refusing to accept in some kind of amnesiac state that she’d even given birth at all. It was rare and almost always shameful in Southern society for someone to have children before fifty-five, and so they’d taken her far from prying eyes and flapping mouths to the fleshdoctors in Mersin. After the girl was born—cut from her when it wouldn’t leave of its own accord—Pentas had wept for days, refusing to look at it after that first tender encounter, likely seeing something of the child’s father in Ara-bis’s angelic, troubled face.

  For two months her sister would neither see nor speak of what had befallen her, ignoring the baby’s screams with a cold gleam in her eye. Eranthis knew that it was shame and defiance, not an inability to love, that kept her sister from the child, and couldn’t say for certain that she’d have behaved any differently in Pentas’s place. It had very nearly been so; she remembered the Plenipotentiary’s early advances, the way he’d been with her. The memories made her want to shudder, guilty at her own lucky escape.

  “She’s taken well to the sea, so far,” Pentas said.

  “So far.” Eranthis blew on her tea. She had nearly resolved to make the trip with Jatropha alone, excluding her sister entirely from the baby’s life at last. But Pentas had grown churlish once she’d seen how people fussed over the baby and not her, accepting Arabis as her own only after it was apparent that she’d share in the glow of attention. Like all sisterly fights fr
om their youth, Eranthis had felt the urge to call her sister’s slyness to attention, beating it back at the realisation that there was more at stake, that Pentas’s selfishness might, indirectly, force her to bond with her own daughter after all.

  “Do you want to hold her?” Pentas asked, opening the bundle in Eranthis’s direction. “I thought I might go up on deck, if I can somehow avoid the wizard.”

  “Keep her a while longer,” Eranthis replied, irritated all over again. She moved over to Pentas’s bed, shuffling along to look down at the bundle. The baby stared back, pouty and restless, her face a memorial to unhappy times.

  SATRAP

  The ferdies’ hooves clopped onto a road of cobbled silver. They’d left the edges of the fragrant forest that blanketed much of the world, hiding the sparkling battle for the sun as it grew in viciousness above. The riders looked down at the ring of shod hooves on metal, the reflections dancing in their faces where the embattled sun shone upon the road, sometimes misted by a strange weather that glowered over the land. Lycaste awoke from his daydreams, the faces of Jasione and her family clear in his mind as he rode through the dim Amaranthine forest, and turned to the others around him, understanding that they must almost be there.

  The road ahead was gently curved, leading through deep green and yellow plantations of waist-high bushes being tended by stooping figures in sun hats and red shawls. At the sight of the netted plantations, the Loyalist escort stopped to confer with Maneker in hushed tones, finally spurring their ferdies off the path and cantering away with raised gauntlets and clamouring, foreign goodbyes.

  “They’re leaving us here,” Huerepo said, voice low over Lycaste’s shoulder. “Returning to the hunt.”

  Lycaste watched them go, returning his gaze to the low hills of emerald-green forest beyond the plantation. Where the road dwindled into the foothills, a dome of pale green copper capped with a spire of gold twinkled in the sunlight, its lower levels hidden darkly by lustrous trees.