The Weight of the World

by Tom Toner

  “Pretty little butterfly,” he half-sang, knocking on the great metal rim of the wheel. “Don’t think Geum the chronicler doesn’t know about that Secondling Screamer up there! My birdies’ve been watching you since Profitus! Who is she, eh? What’s she worth? That I’d like to know, so I would!”

  “Go away!” Eranthis shouted through the scullery hatch. Pentas looked around for something to throw, wondering if he could do any serious damage to the wheel.

  “I might just go and find a Jalan, so I might! Wouldn’t that be a sorry shame? Think I saw one back at the Zelty markets.” He chuckled, rapping on the wheel. “But Geum likes a bargain, so he does, and what use would it be to me seeing two such pretty ladies locked up in the Balustrade?”

  “Go and lock yourself up!” Eranthis yelled, somewhat lamely. Pen-tas thought she could have done better herself, but wouldn’t have been able to keep the laughter out of her voice. What fear she felt was tempered by almost uncontrollable hysterics, an inexplicable urge to fall to the floor in a fit of giggles. Instead she gathered herself and went to their small pantry, rummaging through the jars and pots for the freshly bought tea, sparing Arabis, lying in the next room, only the lightest of glances.

  “I don’t suppose Jatropha’s coming back anytime soon?” she asked Eranthis, adding leaves to the teapot and settling it on the hotplate. The weight of it tipped a mechanism, sparking a white-tinged flame that smelled vaguely sulphurous.

  Eranthis said nothing, leaning on the windowsill to look out. Some other travellers, stopped to inspect the nearby ruins, had begun to notice the man idling by the Wheelhouse. She turned back to Pentas, glancing through the scullery to the prow just as the Eighthling started to call out again from below.

  “You Southern butterflies are all the same, so you are, leading a poor fellow on!”

  “Close all the cupboards,” Eranthis said, moving past Pentas. “I’m going to try and steer this thing into town.”

  Pentas took a last look at the furious chronicler through the hole in the hatch and followed her through to the cabin. The wooden tiller was locked upwards with an iron bolt. Eranthis pulled it free while Pentas busied herself stowing anything left out. Almost as an afterthought, she bundled up the baby and put it to bed, then went back through to the prow.

  “Let’s hope this works,” Eranthis muttered, hauling on the ropes that held the wooden chocks. Almost immediately they felt the Wheel-house begin to roll.

  “He showed you how to steer it?” Pentas asked, momentarily jealous.

  Eranthis shook her head as she gripped the tiller, revolving it experimentally. The Wheelhouse turned, juddering, towards the ruins. They heard a cry from down below. Eranthis winced.

  Pentas hurried to the balcony. They’d run over the Eighthling’s foot.

  “Go go go!” she wailed to the prow, and the Wheelhouse rolled swiftly off in a spray of pebbles, stoning the furious chronicler as he hopped up and down.

  ASTIRION-SALAY

  The port lay unguarded, nothing but a single unlit tower staring into the night above a dark crescent of beach. Maneker, Huerepo and Lycaste climbed down from their ferdies and looked out to the blackness of the Clawed Sea, hearing the ebb and rise of invisible waves. Over the unseen waters the sun stood supported, a disc of pure black ringed by a slim, hair-fine band of gold. The world over their heads shone brilliant as a hundred thousand jewels somehow smelted together, the magic of the Amaranthine ensuring it cast no light upon the black waters.

  “Twenty miles across,” Maneker said, pulling bags from the mount and hurling one to Lycaste. He examined it in the darkness, realising there might be room inside for Huerepo. “I was a fool to think there’d be any boatmen left,” the Amaranthine continued, almost to himself. He strode along the shore, boots crunching in the wet sand.

  Lycaste and Huerepo sat down at the water’s edge, looking off to the ring of gold. Twinkling sparks still played desultorily across its face, like moonlight on waves.

  The ride south had bypassed the distant Prism-held castles, the furthest of them engulfed in flames. Lycaste kept up by galloping parallel with Maneker’s mount, terrified that he might lose them in the dark. They’d spoken little, resting only once. He’d needed desperately to sleep, though Maneker, gripped by the most intense agitation Lycaste had seen in him so far, had flatly forbidden it.

  The port of Astirion-Salay was their only option, the only means of passage between two prongs of land that would save them an eight-hundred-mile detour around the Clawed Sea. Maneker had been counting on it since their chaotic arrival in the Vaulted Land, certain that what he wanted lay on the far shore.

  An Incantation, Huerepo had said as they rested earlier that night. That was what he needed from the Satrap. Just a single word. A word, and the prisoner can go free.

  Lycaste settled tiredly in the sand with his knees pulled to his chest, waiting for the Amaranthine to return. Around his feet, precious stones had been churned from the beach like the ancient, petrified eggs of a nesting creature, exposed now to the night. Huerepo, too exhausted to collect them, had climbed into the waxed knapsack beside Lycaste and gone to sleep. In the darkness, his pointed boots stuck out, twitching as he dreamed.

  This person, this prisoner, was the reason the Amaranthine had brought them here. Whoever he or she was, whatever use they could be, it was clear that their life certainly meant more than the Satrap of Prox-imo’s—at least to Maneker. Charging from the plantations, the Amaranthine and the Vulgar had both kept silent, ignoring Lycaste’s questions about the fate of the Satrap until they’d had a chance to rest. Only then did Maneker spare Lycaste a glance, instructing him sharply to shut his mouth if he knew what was good for him.

  All that mattered to Lycaste was that he got home, and yet he was too afraid now to speak. Seeing Maneker’s furious determination made such concerns feel selfish, and yet he was not the one following in the Amaranthine’s wake just to scoop up jewels. Huerepo’s hand-me-down suit of mismatching armour was fit to burst with secreted treasures; he’d sink like a stone if he happened to fall in while they crossed the water. Lycaste understood that he’d just have to wait, at least until Maneker freed his precious prisoner and set about correcting whatever disease the Firmament had succumbed to. For the first time, it occurred to him that something might be more important than his trip home, that there were events in motion around him that he couldn’t hide from. Lycaste cleaned out his ear with a fingernail, his eyelids drooping, taking some small measure of comfort in the thought that what freedom he still had lay in him being no use at all to Hugo Maneker and his grand schemes. Lycaste had no skills an Immortal would require, no knowledge, little cunning or strength. It could only be a matter of time before he, like this fantastical prisoner, would be released to go his own way.

  Sotiris appeared unbidden in his mind, clad in the full silver regalia of the Secondling guard. Lycaste remembered the late-evening sun, pink against the blue, the sheen of grease on the Amaranthine’s cuirass, the grime on his face.

  Hugo knew the Pretender’s secrets; hel’l know what must be done.

  Lycaste pushed a hand through his beard, now full and thick and greasy. Beside him the Vulgar rolled and grunted, clambering further into the knapsack.

  Pretender. The name meant nothing to him. He hadn’t even known there was a Firmament until he’d left the Tenth, let alone that it was ruled by a mad king intent on bringing it down. The prospect was an opaque one to Lycaste, of seemingly little consequence, like the weather in a foreign land.

  Huerepo snorted, snapping Lycaste from his thoughts. The musk of his sweat drifted from the sack, ripe as Dalaman cheese. He couldn’t have washed in weeks. Lycaste stood, flushing the brightest white he knew and making his way down to the surf. Not everyone had to sink to the Vulgar’s level. He skimmed his hand across the water, gasping at the icy cold. The white of his rapidly thickening skin glowed beneath the black waves as he waded in.

  He stood, shivering for only a few
moments, watching the water around him as a glistening silt churned about his ankles and caught the glow of his body in spinning swirls, constellations of cold, billowing stars eddied by the movements of his hand. There were beasts flitting among the stirred sparkles; small, reflective shrimp tinier than any he’d seen back home. To Lycaste they looked like monsters the size of stars moving with the night sky. Perhaps he was feeding them, churning the waters and scaring up their prey. Maybe there really were creatures out there that ate stars, gliding through the heavens like night-black fish.

  Lycaste pushed a wet hand through his hair, shuddering. Out on the water, unseen things sloshed through the waves. Thunder crumped across the bay, gurgling to a rumble. He stood, listening, remembering that he wasn’t really home. He saw the glow of a light on the sand, watched it march up to the knapsack and accost it.

  “Up!” Maneker snapped, his voice travelling across the water. “Where is he?”

  “Here,” Lycaste said, wading out and shaking himself, preparing for another verbal beating.

  The Amaranthine swung his lamp and looked up. “I’ve hired us transport. Keep the Vulgar out of sight.”

  Huerepo struggled in the sack, one foot caught in a buckled leather strap. Lycaste reached down and picked the whole thing up, slinging it over his shoulder.

  “Better?” he asked, once Huerepo had finished cursing.

  The Vulgar’s head poked out, his hair plastered down over his forehead. He appeared to be looking for something in the sand. “There, my book. Get it, please.”

  Lycaste glanced to his feet. “What—?”

  “My book, dummy—there!”

  He saw the dropped book at last and picked it up—no bigger than his thumb—and passed it carefully to Huerepo. “Can you read in there, in the dark?”

  Huerepo produced a flame from some kind of tiny device on the end of a chain, waggling it at Lycaste before pulling down the cover on the knapsack.

  The vessel, what Maneker had called a Sloop, was one of the most beautiful things Lycaste had ever seen. Russet sails like birds’ wings tapered to the stern, a shimmering galley of wood and gold leaf shining brilliant in the light of Maneker’s lamp.

  “Welcome, Sire,” the boatman said, taking Maneker’s hand and helping him aboard. His eyes slid to Lycaste, a smile forming in them. “Other Sire.”

  “Are we ready?” Maneker asked, pulling the collar of his ragged cloak up and bustling to the front of the Sloop. Its masts were strung with tiny paper lanterns, their light hopping up and down in the wind.

  “Ready? Aye, ready as we’ll ever be.” Two oarsmen at the sides nodded to Maneker and heaved their oars into the silt. Satisfactorily cast-off, they took their places, latching the oars into elaborate gilded rowlocks.

  Lycaste shrugged off the knapsack, forgetting at first that Huerepo was still inside. As it landed with a thump on the deck, a harsh curse emanated from within.

  All three boatmen looked up from their tasks, ears pricked. The ship creaked, black waves nudging its hull. Thunder growled once more across the bay. Eventually the captain spoke.

  “It is just the two Sires to cross?”

  The grey shape of Maneker ignored him from the bow. Lycaste nodded as the man approached, hoping he’d understood correctly.

  “Because we can’t be overstocking the boat. Not with a storm coming in.” The boatman’s round, pink eyes went to the knapsack, slung behind Lycaste on the boards of the stern. At length, to Lycaste’s considerable relief, he smiled and looked out the way they’d come.

  A jet of water billowed from the waves, its spray illuminated in the pool of the ship’s lanterns. The oarsmen cried out in delight, joining Maneker at the bow. Just beyond the boat’s flickering light, another spray erupted from the waters. A head almost as large as the ship rose slowly from the waters to peer at them.

  “Here, Jessle!” the captain called out, extending his hand slowly in the age-old mime of summoning wild beasts. The great canine eye of the thing blinked at him as it sank back into the water, the humour in it reminding Lycaste of the Dolfish in his cove.

  It reappeared closer to the bow, rocking the hull and spattering the watchers. Maneker reached out a hand to caress its mottled skin, patterned here and there with slicked tufts of oily hair. Its head rose further from the swell, leaning into the Amaranthine’s hand and exposing two great, twisted horns set far back in its skull. Maneker smiled, his fingers brushing across them before returning to Jessle’s single nostril. It flared and snorted, threatening to jet. Lycaste gave the knapsack a quick glance, suddenly fearful that Huerepo might have been tempted to poke his head out, but the Vulgar remained still, the drawstring around the neck knotted tight.

  After a while, Jessle appeared to grow bored, its eye roving across the ship and alighting on Lycaste. When he made no attempt to speak or touch it, the beast sank back beneath the waves to a gurgle of thunder from the distant storm.

  The oarsmen resumed their places and began to row, the captain remaining at the bow and talking softly with Maneker. Lycaste went and sat with the knapsack, taking out some pastries and wine he’d stolen from the Satrap’s larder; across the water, the clouds came alive with silent lightning, followed after a few moments by a drum-beat of thunder. The lanterns in the masts swung and tinkled, their flames bobbing, flickering. Lycaste recalled his walk across the beach to the caves, the first time he’d ever seen lightning. The day all this had started. He stared at his hands as he remembered that day then shook his head distastefully at the memory, inspecting his half-eaten pastry before finishing it off.

  Lights twinkled out to sea. Lightning played among the clouds, a surge of waves slapping the Sloop’s nose upwards while thunder ripped across the bay. He saw Maneker advancing towards him across the deck. The Amaranthine came and sat, rubbing his hands together. He didn’t look at either Lycaste or the knapsack, his gaze diverted instead by the distant lights.

  “You’ve been patient, both of you. I expected more quarrelling.”

  Lycaste avoided glancing down at the bag, seeing how the boatmen eyed them. “I—”

  “I’m not finished,” Maneker snapped. “I meant it when I said I was done with you.” His cold eyes met Lycaste’s. “You’re no use to me. I’d sooner not have the two of you slowing me down.” He gestured out into the darkness. “The captain of this ship will let me off and continue on to a port in the north, not too far from an orifice sea. He’s promised he’ll get you there safely and free of any charge.”

  Lycaste nodded slowly, unsure whether to be glad of the news. “Orifice sea?”

  “A thin part of the Vaulted Land where ships of the Void may enter and leave. There will almost certainly be vessels there that can get you home.” The Amaranthine dug in one of his grimy pockets for a moment, producing a blunt grafitus pencil with some string tied around its end and a piece of worn, crinkled paper. He looked at Lycaste. “You can read Tenth?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good.” He began to write. Lycaste studied the man’s flawless Tenthling script over his shoulder. Even with the rise and fall of the Sloop, the Amaranthine’s style barely faltered. “There,” he said, scribbling in the margins. “These are the names of the Grand Companies that will likely have remained on the surface to assist departing Amaranthine.”

  Lycaste read their names: Brushell’s Fifteen, The Catchers Superior, The Guns of Armodo.

  “Find one and show them this.” Maneker turned over the paper, revealing a second, pre-written note. The script was entirely foreign to Lycaste, composed of loopy, joined-up letters. He couldn’t tell where one word began and another ended.

  “Show this side to any Amaranthine you encounter, too. If there are none, which may well be the case, you go to the Pifoon. Huerepo will talk to them for you.”

  Lycaste thought about this, panic teasing at his stomach. “What if he and I don’t—?”

  “You will stay together.”

  Maneker’s words stretched through the s
ilence. Lycaste took the note as it was handed to him, cradling it carefully in his large hand, fearful of folding it in case the Amaranthine should object.

  “Remember,” Maneker said, pointing to an underlined paragraph on the note, “this is your address.”

  Lycaste nodded glumly.

  “Well? Look at it. What does it say?”

  Lycaste read aloud, flushing at his remonstration. “‘Old Izimir, Mare Nostrum. Orb. Melius Dom. (Old Satrapy.)’” He looked hard at the words, understanding that he would be dropped off at the nearest port, Izmirean.

  “How will I pay them?” Lycaste asked, terrified that his question would be considered foolish.

  “With my regard, implicit on the other side of that note. A Perennial Amaranthine’s favour is still not a currency to be sniffed at.” He glanced off to the captain of the Sloop. “And I daresay a few of the Vulgar’s pilfered jewels shall buy you some extra comfort.”

  He waited until Maneker looked back at him. “Thank you. How long will it take to get there?”

  The Amaranthine appeared uninterested by the question. “Just memorise that address.”

  A raindrop pattered onto the note, darkening the fine letters. They both looked up, everything forgotten for the briefest of moments. Lycaste held his hand out to catch the drops.

  “It wasn’t me, you know,” Maneker said suddenly, leaning forward to study the gold-painted boards. “Though I wished him dead.” The Amaranthine looked off to the lights again. “It was just bad luck for him that so did his servants.”

  Lycaste didn’t know what to say. He felt the knapsack between his feet move almost imperceptibly.

  “If you’d only known what sort of man the Satrap Vincenti was,” Maneker mumbled, almost to himself. “He chose Vincenti as governor here, knowing the man’s greed and unnatural lusts would keep His investments safe.”

  “He?” Lycaste asked. “You mean the Pretender?”

  Maneker raised his eyebrows minutely, studying Lycaste. “You think your world forgotten, untouched by people like us. But your home, your lands—all would be known to Him, put to use by Him in some way. Those great fields of silk that Vincenti oversaw kept the First in the Long-Life’s pocket.” Maneker smiled. “It is He who really owns the Provinces, Lycaste.” He sat back. “And now all the Firmament.”