The Weight of the World

by Tom Toner

  “Bitey things?” the Vulgar asked, pulling off his battered armour and fitting himself with a dazzling silver brigandine that glowed with rounded blue gems. He yanked on the stone-studded belt, buckling it tighter, and gave Lycaste a twirl, the worn damask cape it came with flowing out in a rippling ultramarine fan. “What do you think?” His scrawny legs and booted feet still poked out beneath, undergarments hanging down. “Now to find some greaves.” Lycaste watched him dig around some more, occasionally inspecting the floor for spiders. Huerepo came back out of the pile again sporting a magnificent curved rapier and a silver, emerald-beaded helm a few sizes too big. The helmet’s pointed nose, set with more of the luminous stones, connected with the jaw of the faceplate in a set of stylised snarling teeth. He swished the sword around, stumbling and almost falling under its weight.

  “Am I not magnificent?” he screeched, advancing in Lycaste’s general direction, clearly unable to see.

  Lycaste couldn’t help but grin. He stepped back a little from the whirling Vulgar and pushed him gently in another direction. Huerepo fumbled with his helmet and activated some kind of long-dormant system. The eyeholes abruptly lit up; two glowing white circles that shone around as he got his bearings. He marched about, striking various manly poses, then flicked up the faceplate. A strobing display inside the bevor still pulsed, as if to the beat of his heart.

  “You know you’re going to be too heavy to carry like that,” Lycaste said.

  Huerepo shrugged, nodding at the pile. “What are you going to wear?”

  Lycaste gazed doubtfully at the mannequins and then at his knapsack, lying off near Maneker’s prone form. It hadn’t occurred to him that perhaps they should have asked the Amaranthine before raiding these ancient treasures. He cocked a thumb at the dark figure, whispering, “Do you think we should have—?”

  “Take as much as you can,” came the pained voice from the shadows. “That is Iridium you wear, Vulgar. It will deflect any shoddy Prism bolt.” The man stirred, sitting up, his hands pressed to the bandages covering his eyes, sighing as if from more than simple agony. “I’ll need you both iron-clad if you’re to look after me, won’t I?”

  Lycaste stared at Maneker, then pulled open the knapsack to inspect what he’d taken. He’d tried clothing once before as a boy, during rehearsals for a play. His parents had wanted him cast in the lead, for even then at the age of nine his fine face had begun to show through the plumpness of childhood. Nobody understood the terror he’d felt, laughing, cajoling and finally despairing as he refused to climb the steps to the wooden stage. He’d fled, disappearing into the wilds of the island for a day, slinking home for a missed supper and realising they’d never quite think of him in the same way again.

  Lycaste contemplated his fears as he shrugged on a crimson velvet shirt, his body trembling involuntarily at the brush of fabric against his damaged skin. He hoisted up some britches and buckled them, noticing how well they fitted: these must have belonged to one of the Firmamental Melius. He had less luck with the Amaranthine boots, grumbling and tossing them aside when they wouldn’t fit.

  “Here,” Huerepo puffed, dragging a great bowl-shaped cuirass out from the mess of broken mannequins. “Try this.”

  Lycaste hefted the cuirass over his head, snapping shut the locks along the side after some prompts from Huerepo. He smiled, rapping his fist against the silver and draping his bandolier across his chest. The pearl-coloured Amaranthine pistol lay snugly against his waist, reassuringly heavy in its holster. He felt supremely protected inside his case of silver and cloth, armoured like a hermit crab in its shell, and the prospect of that second Fuine prowling the grounds outside didn’t feel quite so daunting any more.

  “Daft Melius,” Huerepo said beside him, pointing out that he’d put his britches on the wrong way round. “Looks splendid, though.” Huerepo turned to Maneker. “Doesn’t he look—?”

  The Amaranthine smirked. “I’m sure he does.” His mouth fell at the edges, his expression sour as the Vulgar’s embarrassment hung in the air. He slumped, putting his hands once more to the bandages and propping his head on a piece of shattered mannequin. “Let me sleep now,” he murmured. “Wake me in an hour.” At some more of his whispered words, the spark he’d conjured dimmed, suggesting unequivocally that they should consider sleeping, too.

  Lycaste and Huerepo glanced at each other and went to sit by the knapsack, the Vulgar removing most of his armour so that he could stretch out across the flagstones.

  “What now?” Lycaste murmured, rubbing his arms and revelling at the sensation of being encased in fabric. The sting of his wounds had begun to lessen, though a patch of the shirt across his back had clearly stuck fast to the exposed muscle and was starting to itch maddeningly. He tried to rub it against the wall, succeeding only in scraping his cuirass and waking Maneker.

  “Quiet!” barked the Amaranthine from the darkness of the chamber’s edge.

  Lycaste rooted as quietly as he could inside the knapsack, offering Huerepo the remains of what he’d found in the Satrap’s larder. The Vulgar ate with the vacant expression of a tired creature lost in thought, his chewing hesitating as some dramatic memory crossed his mind. Lycaste glanced around, rearranging his britches and looking for somewhere to relieve himself.

  He crept through the dimness to the other side of the hall, skirting the heap of shattered mannequins. Lycaste’s feet were still bare, and he took care not to step on anything and wake the Amaranthine again. While he pissed, he listened to the wind and rain outside, struggling to scratch his ear on the pauldron of his new armour without making too much noise. Something was tickling it, like a person leaning close to whisper, and he buttoned up his britches again to gaze into the dim light.

  There was a whispering. At first, Lycaste thought it might have been Maneker, still muttering oaths at Huerepo, but gradually he realised the sound was coming from the chambers above.

  He went alone up the stone stairs, lifting the cold door latch as quietly as he could, suddenly terrified of attracting the attention of whatever it was they had come to find. The door swung wide in the blackness, opening into a richer, deeper shade of night within.

  Lycaste breathed, eyes open to nothingness, questioning how this person could have been imprisoned without locks or keys. He felt some faint, residual warmth in the sizeless chamber, as if something did indeed live here, sliding his hand out before him as he stepped inside and expecting the cold touch of a sightless Immortal with every heartbeat. With a moment of panic he realised he would lose the door if he simply blundered forward and turned to feel for the wall. His hand met the cold stone with an echoing slap.

  Must you be so noisy?

  Lycaste gasped, backing into the door that had closed softly behind him. The ancient wood rattled on its hinges.

  Like a bull in a china shop, the voice muttered, its volume fluctuating as it circled him. Lycaste gazed into the inky black, every hair bristled out, expecting to be touched. His feet encountered something fine as dust, brushing it aside as he stepped further in.

  What have we here? the voice demanded, facing him. No breath came to waft across Lycaste’s face, though the interrogator was surely only a few inches away. Stop. Don’t tell me. Let’s have a look.

  Silence. Lycaste had the faintest impression of warmth where he presumed he was being touched. He remained still, his fists thrust out before him like a fighter in a ring. The sound of its speech had begun as a chalky rasp in his head, thin and ancient. With every word it grew in power, however, developing the way an unpractised voice prepares to sing.

  Young, the entity said suddenly, now rich and bold in his mind. Cells still at the stage of near total renewal. Lucky Melius. Lucky, lucky, lucky. The speech paused, tingeing its final utterance with vicious disdain.

  “I’m fifty-one,” Lycaste stammered, not knowing where to direct his comment.

  Yes, the voice said impatiently. Born in the winter. Your bones show the seasonal growth. And . . . no react
ion to the neurotoxin. Extraordinary. Even Acolytes fall foul of my Spinners.

  He rubbed his bitten finger, his skin crawling.

  You have fascinating bodies, you Melius. So elegantly prepared for life. The envy my jailors must feel every time they look at you.

  Lycaste waited. “Thank you?” he ventured at last.

  The silence continued, even as he felt the presence considering him. Lycaste wondered how it could make any comment on the state of his bones, let alone see through the silver cuirass.

  Where are they, then?

  “I’m sorry?”

  The voice sighed, slinking to his ear. You’ll have to do better than that. What do the pickled old wraiths want with me this time?

  “Maneker? He has an Incantation—something that will set you free.”

  The voice stayed silent for so long that Lycaste began to fear he’d been imagining the whole thing. Then from the other end of the chamber it spoke. Liars die quickly in here. They blunder into threads as fine as hair, and things come dangling down.

  Lycaste felt hesitantly for the door, deciding after a moment that the Amaranthine would likely do a much better job of explaining than he had, even without his eyes. Suddenly the voice was almost inside his ear.

  But. . . wait. He has need of you. A simple Melius not worth the price of his fodder. Why? What role do you play here?

  Lycaste clutched the edge of the door, levering it open in the darkness. “Perhaps I should—”

  I put the question to you, the blackness purred. What’s the matter? Aren’t you your own man? Its tone had sharpened to a blade. Warmth caressed Lycaste’s temple.

  He hesitated, colouring in the darkness, sure that he could be seen as clearly as if in daylight. He was no more a man than this voice in his head, not really.

  I see you now; I see the terror in you, the frailty. It spoke almost soothingly. You are a weak and fearful thing, nothing but a boy— The voice paused, hot now across his brow like a clinging vapour. But what is this? A touch as fine as smoke dripped from his eyelashes, falling to caress his chin. Lycaste had a vision of thin white hands with the texture of steam clasped around his head, probing, measuring. Great perfection. Classical. A face much valued . . . and quite wasted. Now what would a lustless Amaranthine want with the likes of you?

  “I didn’t ask to come here,” he whispered into the chamber, standing straighter. Purple shapes blossomed where his eyes strained to see, as blind and useless as Maneker’s.

  Neither did I. This is a place of misery. It would have been better if you’d never come at all.

  Lycaste nodded to the blackness.

  However. Here you are. The voice circled behind him, filling the small gap between Lycaste and the door. Where have you come from? That is not Amaranthine you speak—you are no Adjunct.

  “I’m a free man,” Lycaste said, taking a wild guess at the meaning of the voice’s last word. “From the Tenth.”

  Indeed? A Freeman of the Holy Old World, come on his pilgrimage? I see this was no ordinary journey, not for the likes of you. You fought my guards to get in here. Killed one, judging by the state of you.

  “That’s right,” Lycaste replied, his pride resurfacing. “I’m not as delicate as everyone seems to think.”

  I’m sure, the voice said with some amusement. Tell me, Tenthling, have you ever loved?

  He thought about it. “Yes.”

  And your heart was broken.

  He stayed silent, the air heavy around him.

  Once . . . it seemed to calculate, by death.

  He clenched his fists in the darkness. “How can you know that?”

  You know it, not I. It shows in the fabric of your vessels, the strain of loss.

  Lycaste shook his head, closing his hand around the latch. “Maneker will want to talk to you.”

  Then fetch him up.

  “What were you doing in there?”

  “It asked me questions.”

  Maneker beckoned Lycaste closer to where he sat on the stone, his bandage having already slipped to show the edge of one bloody socket. Huerepo hurried to his side and retied it. “What did it ask?” Maneker demanded. “Tell me precisely. It will know more than enough about the state of things from your answers already.”

  “Why didn’t it just ask you?” Lycaste asked, exasperated. “I don’t know anything.”

  “It hates the Amaranthine for imprisoning it here. It will presume everything I say to it is a lie. What did it ask you?”

  Lycaste sighed, glancing at Huerepo. “Nothing much. Where I was from. If I’d ever been in love.”

  Maneker nodded blindly, clasping his fingers anxiously together. “Both of you come with me. I’ll do the talking.”

  Lycaste helped the Amaranthine up, taking his hand.

  “Leave me be, Lycaste!” Maneker snapped, wrenching his hand away and fumbling shakily for the wall. Huerepo climbed up after them, dragging the knapsack, now loaded with gems, behind.

  “Perception!” Maneker called into the darkness, rapping his knuckles against the stone of the chamber wall. Lycaste remembered being woken up for lessons in the same way, long ago now.

  “I don’t think it likes that,” Lycaste told the Amaranthine.

  Glad somebody remembers.

  Maneker turned his head, sensing the voice between them just as Lycaste did.

  “We’ve met before,” Maneker said, striding to what might have been the centre of the chamber. Something crossed between him and Lycaste just then, muffling the Amaranthine’s speech ever so slightly.

  Is he always like this? the voice breathed in Lycaste’s direction.

  Lycaste couldn’t help but smile, saying nothing.

  “You know who I am, Spirit,” Maneker said crossly, his voice turning back to Lycaste. “And that I am one of the few with the power to set you free.”

  You should leave, Melius. Make your own way in the world. Clinging to the shirt tails of a man like this will only bring you grief.

  Lycaste heard Maneker stalk towards him, presumably with the intention of sending him out. He moved a little to one side in case the Immortal walked straight into him, hearing the squeak as he stepped on Huerepo’s foot.

  Now here’s a special little thing, the Spirit exclaimed, the sound of its voice swinging low. Lycaste braced himself for Huerepo’s indignation and was not disappointed.

  “What the bloody hell!” Huerepo barked, shuffling back towards the door and dropping his jewels. “I felt it!”

  Bred beyond all recognition, Perception said. Tell me, creature, are you in pain?

  “What?” Huerepo asked, his voice trembling.

  You should be, the way your liver’s crammed in there. Most unnatural. What are you—some new breed of Melius?

  “Spirit!” Maneker roared, flailing in the general direction of Lycaste and Huerepo until they stepped back. “Answer me or I shall leave, taking your freedom with me.”

  Oh, you won’t do that, Hugo Maneker, Perception sneered, its voice rising above them. That’s the very last thing you’ll do. Do they know how powerless you are, now that your eyes have been cut from you?

  “What do you know, ghost?” Maneker asked the shadows. “Four thousand years cooped up in here and you think yourself an expert on anything?”

  I know from your Melius here that the Firmament has crumbled. Things like that other hold sway now. I know that you are scared, desperate and have already come within a whisker of taking your own life. Oh yes, I see your intentions with little difficulty, Primogenitor. Think on that in your never-ending darkness.

  Maneker slammed his hand against the door, wobbling the hinges as Lycaste had earlier. “And I know that you would be free, at all costs,” he spluttered. “Don’t think of denying it. It was not me who put you here.”

  Those who did got what they deserved.

  “Yes.”

  And what do you deserve, Hugo? What would your maker think of you?

  “Help me atone for my mistakes, Per
ception. Help me make things right.”

  The darkness went quiet. Lycaste folded his arms around himself and waited. Something scuttled past his foot while the blackness gave every impression of thought.

  What if I cannot leave? the voice said softly.

  “Cannot leave?” Maneker asked wearily.

  The Spirit’s tone sharpened again. You damn well know.

  The Amaranthine appeared to have turned in the darkness. Now his voice pointed away from Lycaste, almost inaudible. “This is a Vaulted Land, a hollowed planet. It has no gravity, only spin.”

  Lycaste leaned back in the blackness, trying to understand what they were talking about. He was certain he heard a new tentativeness in the Spirit’s voice when it spoke, almost like fear.

  Spun. Spun around. It fell silent for a very long time, though as it did so, Lycaste fancied he could feel something different, a charge, a tension that appeared to quiver in the air.

  Very well, Amaranthine. Say your word. Let them see your magic.

  LUMINESCENCE

  “We found an Awger without his face or hands not long ago.” Bidens gestured with his own hands, miming the skin being peeled away. Eran-this wrinkled her nose.

  “There are things now, in the Provinces, all sorts of Starling visitors,” Jatropha said, angling the tiller as they came to a slight bend, bumping over a cluster of irregular stones and rumbling on down into the valley. Eranthis’s teeth rattled in her head, sympathetic to the protestations of yesterday’s repairs. “Once the year turns, you might find yourselves a good deal relieved.”

  Eranthis remembered the night-time stories he’d told her. The Starlings, in their unending superstition, blamed Hoopies—Investiture spirits from a time before hominid life—but Jatropha said it was possible they’d had a run-in with the Old World’s only indigenous Prism (other than the Melius themselves), the Gheal.

  “My father questioned the folk outside the walls,” Bidens continued, “but they weren’t very helpful.”

  “And why should they be?” Eranthis asked, thinking of the cannibalistic things Jatropha had mentioned that existed in some parts of the Investiture. “You keep the poor people outside, with only scraps to eat and rubbish to build their shelters. Why should they owe you anything?”