The Weight of the World

by Tom Toner

  “I haven’t thanked you properly, Percy.”

  A pleasure.

  “If you hadn’t been with us . . .”

  Indeed.

  He rubbed his gauntlets together with a tinny scraping sound, saying no more, suddenly aware that there were creatures, nothing but gloomy apparitions, wandering around on the rubbish pile with him. They didn’t appear inclined to come close, content instead to rummage among the cast-offs from the dock. Lycaste spied some charred metal springs and wire near his boot but didn’t think this was the sort of thing Perception would be after. It wanted specific equipment, the significance of which Lycaste wouldn’t have recognised even if he were locked in here to search for a thousand years. The Spirit’s ingenuity confounded him; it had no more expertise in electrical and magnetic systems than he did, and yet knew already how to dismantle an engine and improve it. Lycaste imagined how different his life could have been with a fraction of Percy’s cleverness and hoped that perhaps, if he spent enough time in the Spirit’s company, a little might rub off.

  Just as he was wondering if there were any Melius-size helmets buried in the heap, one of the scavenging creatures dug a squirming, sleepy-looking resident out of the pile and set about throttling it. The squeals died off while the thing hoisted its lantern to examine what it had killed. Lycaste watched, fascinated, as the scavenger went to work licking the skin from its prey in loud, rasping slurps.

  Best get going.

  “Yes,” he whispered, making his way along the dune of rubbish to a three-storey wooden shack, stepping over a trio of black, hairy little people that surrounded him before scampering away. Across the rubbish heaps, ships were docked in their hundreds, making something that resembled a small city. Lycaste looked out as he made his faltering way along, noticing many of the smaller vessels were stacked three or four high inside makeshift wooden towers. Of the larger ships, most appeared to have been taken apart and rebuilt into elaborate tin hovels.

  A lot of these must have entered here in such bad repair that they couldn’t get out again, Perception said.

  He nodded, taking in the city of rebuilt ships and their thousands of lights and fires, the hundreds of chimney stacks dribbling smoke into the misty cloud. In the grey dimness, Perception seemed to pause and ruminate, as if looking him over in the manner of a displeased mother. Walk with confidence, Sire Lycaste; you are a giantling journeyman with a demon perched upon your shoulder. The Firmament has never seen the likes of you before.

  Lycaste grinned, not minding the foetid air so much anymore. He straightened his back, watching scuttling people in the shadows hesitate as they noticed him. “You’re on my shoulder?”

  Occasionally. The varying gravity in here’s a little tiresome.

  He made his way alongside the fire-pits, stepping over plank hovels secreted in the darkness. Their occupants hooted and jabbered, stoking the flames. Sounds travelled slowly here, and Lycaste’s head swelled again whenever he encountered pockets of lower air pressure. Gravity, as the Spirit had claimed, appeared to cling in the hollows as he walked, the smoke rolling and sinking lower here and there to reveal more of the interior world beyond. Manic, wheezing laughter came filtering out of darkness beyond, sounding distant in the thin air.

  No cockpit in this thing, Perception said, having presumably taken a quick look about. Bunk Barges appear to follow their chosen battleship by sound only. They must get very lost, from time to time.

  Lycaste stumbled among the half-visible mounds of rubbish. He didn’t like the thought that Perception had left him, however briefly. The hill dropped suddenly into a submerged valley of wooden living quarters alive with dim shapes, a passage that led down into heat and light and smoke. Lycaste hesitated and climbed back out of the trench, stepping along its edge and back into the neighbouring rubbish heap, noticing as he looked over the side that the misted corridors of rickety dwellings dropped gently for hundreds of feet into the crust of the ship. Warmth and stench wafted out from the crevasse, thousands of lives hidden away from sight.

  “Am I going the right way?” he whispered, stumbling and keeping his eyes open for anyone nearby. Only the thumping, drumming, cackling noises of the place followed his question. Lycaste broke out in a light, cool sweat. “Percy?”

  Hmm? Sorry about that. Just dropped down there for a look.

  “Would you please stay with me? I want to get this over with as quickly as possible.”

  All right, all right.

  Lycaste grumbled, sinking up to his knees in the dark rubbish. Shadow coated him as he slid down a dune. A hiss in the darkness made him gasp and fumble for his light. Eyes glittered and disappeared in the shadow of the pile.

  It wasn’t far to the nearest bridge: a dilapidated wooden citadel in its own right, one of the hundreds that rose above the gulf of smoky space and up to the Posthouse. Pungent, sucking mud grasped at his boots as Lycaste made his nervous way onto a thoroughfare packed with wandering Prism, the crowd of knee-high creatures surging apart around him. Bony white fingers brushed his suit, exploring, probing, tapping to grade the metal. Furred tails swished, tufted ears twitched, sickeningly distorted faces gazed up at him. Lycaste pushed hurriedly through, dropping a handful of his Filgurees into a metal slot, their weight opening the gate and allowing him access to the bridge’s first level.

  Go quickly now, you’re a spectacle already.

  Beggars crowded him as soon as he entered, almost pulling him to the ground. Lycaste yelped and shook them off, making his way swiftly up some wooden steps to the next iron gate and shovelling coins into the slot. This door required more, and he’d barely got the gate open before the beggars reached him, pawing at his suit. Lycaste scuttled through and shoved the gate closed behind him, his extra Melius muscle pushing them back at last.

  He turned, finding himself in another, slightly better-appointed section of the bridge. Over the side, he could see hovels made from knotted rope and plastic dangling beneath, their strands tied to others with thin, sagging lines like the work of a confused, gargantuan spider. The air was cleaner up here, Lycaste found, glimpsing tenements and shipyards glowing beneath him, their light fuzzy through the low layer of smog. As he climbed, he sensed that his body had thinned, his scrawny muscles having shrunk during their long, inactive spell in the Void. He tried to ignore the occasional shuffling figure he stepped over and the deathly drop to his side. Concentrating on the Posthouse itself appeared to help; Lycaste studied its levels as he climbed, noting how small the Prism people looked as they ambled along its walkways and through its passages. At the very top, a glinting assortment of metal glowed with lights, the remains of the habitation tank’s original equipment, probably.

  Through the next gate, walls crowned with iron spikes rose on either side. Here the Prism smoked and ate in the houses that lined the wooden square, their skinny legs dangling from the windows. Lycaste made brief eye contact and a beast that appeared to be all mouth lolled its tongue at him. Another shuffled out of his path, its eyes weeping a copious, crusty fluid that had coated the boards. Lycaste felt his boots stick as he made his way past and up the steps. The Prism that squatted there looked unwilling to move, a host of eyes glaring up at him in the greyness, completely blocking his way.

  Pistol time.

  Lycaste unscrewed his gauntlet and rummaged in his chest compartment. The crowd began to grumble and growl, some goblin shapes rising to their feet in the mist just as Lycaste found what he needed.

  “Out of the way, please,” he said in his best Unified, waving the weapon around, pleased as they began to shuffle and make room.

  It pains me so, Perception said gleefully, to prove Maneker wrong.

  Lycaste kept his gaze moving, careful not to glance at anyone in particular. It was hard work among so many huge, colourful sets of eyes.

  Stop looking so diffident—keep that back straight, display your height. I can smell the fear steaming off you.

  He found the coin slot, discovering it would only
accept double what he’d paid at the first gate. “Are we going to have enough? To get to the top?”

  Looks like it’s happened to enough of them—running out of money at a certain gate, all stuck in their particular district, unable or unwilling to get out. Look.

  Lycaste followed the direction of Perception’s voice. An emaciated old Vulgar was caught on the wall spikes, the skin of his back pulled tight where it had been impaled. His chest rose and fell slowly beneath his ripped clothes. The soldiers at the gate paid no heed, being far more interested in Lycaste.

  Keeps the riff-raff from getting to the top, I suppose.

  Lycaste frowned, thinking that was harsh, even for Perception.

  The Prism of the next level were generally older and more well-to-do. They sat at long tables outside the guesthouse in the square, smoking their pipes and observing Lycaste without bothering him. More soldiers in shiny tin armour lined the walls, conversing cheerfully with the crowd.

  Five thousand soldiers in this place looking for work, Perception said. And Maneker means to hire every last one of them.

  Lycaste pushed through the final door after depositing almost all of his remaining money, reflecting sourly that he hadn’t any left to buy a helmet. On the other side, the wooden steps led up to the Post-house entrance, a gatehouse hung with tatty banners that swirled in the updraughts of the high place.

  He hesitated, closing the gate behind him when the guards grumbled from the other side.

  Stop a moment.

  Lycaste did as he was told, noticing the group making their way down to him.

  Ah. They probably rob everyone who gets this far. Easy targets.

  “What should I do?”

  There are a hundred things you could do, Perception said.

  “Such as?” he whispered, exasperated.

  Lycaste had his hand on the superluminal pistol again, his heart hammering inside its protective layers of metal. The Spirit whispered into his ear.

  LIATRIS

  The entertainments began with a frantic chiselling of wood against metal, an atonal chanting of materials as the orchestra warmed up. At some signal, the ten Firstling musicians twirled their notched wooden wands as one, drawing them swiftly back and forth along the polished grooves of the huge Orestone. They shifted their footing together, selecting a new channel in its surface and repeating the process, each wooden pole taking a different course along the engraved metal disc.

  Amaranthine didn’t generally enjoy music, having mostly lost the ability to make out anything more than simple sound. They treated it like all mortal diversions, as an expression of immaturity, an incessant hankering to stuff all life with filler. Jatropha couldn’t appreciate musical chords as he once did, either, though tonight he was forced to admit that he was in the company of something very special indeed.

  The musicians shifted again, taking up new positions around the giant Orestone without their wands losing contact. An eleventh Firstling arrived softly from the shadows and erected a ladder to great fanfare, climbing it slowly with her stave balanced over her shoulder. At just the right moment, she touched the pole to a tiny hollow on the surface of the reverberating disc. Jatropha closed his eyes, entranced.

  Tonight he was dressed as a distinguished old Firstling himself, assuming the height and pallor of a man born a handful of centuries ago and a thousand miles away. He caught sight of some exotic Meliusfolk in fabulous Shamefashions slipping through the mixed crowd of Westerlings, Borderlings and Cursed People with their heads bowed in the Province’s custom, making their way into the gardens, perhaps to gift the Gheal. Their course to the balconies was naturally curved, as if in the weak thrall of an orbit, for there at the centre of the ballroom, dwarfed by the massive, charred metal disc of the Orestone, was the authoress herself: Liatris of Albina.

  Jatropha moved through the churning mass of Players, poets and authors, pets and beasts: a collection of burnished eyes that glittered in the golden light sliding over his Melius form before moving on. He knew plenty of them by sight and more than a few were in his debt, their borrowings filed away to be made use of in the years to come. The giant people parted with the gentlest hint of persuasion, swirling away to join other clusters as the Orestone sighed into life again. He strode through, correcting his mental image to that of a slender Westerly Melius: more fashionable these days. Some people pretended to recognise him as he passed, though he’d never worn this face before.

  “I have an idea for my own novel, you know. It shall be a great romance!”

  “I am something of a writer myself, Mistress Liatris, though I haven’t yet begun in earnest—”

  “A signature, if you would?”

  The authoress turned at the last, bringing her enormous silver listening trumpet level with her ear. She scrawled her engraving pen across the front of the ring book he offered her, peeling away a fine coil of shavings, then looked at him properly for the first time.

  Jatropha gazed calmly back, ignoring the customs of the Land, aware that only the very oldest could see him as he truly was.

  “My, my,” she croaked, pen poised, the listening trumpet wobbling in her thin grasp. She waved away the company of Westerling men who had set up camp around her, all studiously observing the floor tiles. When they’d gone, she lowered the trumpet, her pale eyes focusing past the glamours Jatropha had wrapped himself in.

  “I did not mean to interrupt,” he said.

  “Stifling,” she replied in a papery voice. “Suitors, all of them, after my money.”

  “You invited them to your birthday?”

  “No.” She said the word with acidic distaste. “But still they come. When I am dust they shall be beating their way to my door with lines of verse. Imagine that, Amaranthine! Trying to charm an old mummy in her grave.” Liatris stared at him shrewdly, her two hundred and ninetytwo years sloughing away. “Perhaps I should throw down a gauntlet; let the young man wise enough to spot the Immortal guest wed me here and now, hmm?”

  “It has been tried before. None pass.” He smiled. “Though I should be careful to disappear just in case, to spare your fortune.”

  “Good man.” Liatris cackled, scratching under her enormous ball of coiffed scarlet hair. It was studded with flawed emeralds of various weights. Red and green should never be seen, Jatropha thought, understanding there were none brave enough to question the lady’s taste.

  “And how about a turn around the garden?” she asked him. “Is that not the done thing when two doddery old things meet in the company of youth?”

  “I believe it is.” Jatropha extended his arm for her to take, and together they parted the rows of fascinated guests between them and the balcony doors.

  “And what did you think of it?” Liatris asked, gesturing at the book in his grip, the story of Calpus Maladine. “A fairy story, I suppose? I had not the luxury of consultation with any of your kind.”

  Jatropha thought for a moment. “It was entirely wrong, yes.”

  The authoress burst into light, tinkling laughter, signalling for her retainers to open the doors, and they slipped together into cool green night, a little spotted Monkman—one of Liatris’s pets—scampering through after her.

  “The garden is ours,” she said, dropping blankets onto some chairs that looked out over the water. Somewhere in the trees the Gheal squatted, more spirit than living thing by the laws of the West.

  Jatropha sat and looked at her. Liatris had dispensed with the hearing trumpet in favour of a smaller one. “To make them shout,” she said. “Everyone eventually tires, and I get some time to myself.”

  He did not drop his disguise, knowing hovering guests observed them from higher balconies. “Letters of introduction,” he said, looking back out to the lake. “I’ll need them to pass from Pan back into the Second.”

  She croaked a laugh, pushing away the pet Monkman scrabbling at her legs. “Stop it now, Marqueza. Stop it. Why? You can’t need to take the roads.”

  “Oh, but I do. I ha
ve cargo.”

  Liatris appeared to think, then her large pink eyes widened. “You can’t mean the—?”

  Jatropha shrugged, toying with the edge of the embroidered blanket. The authoress had long been in communion with various Firstling and Secondling nobles disloyal to the current monarchy. Jatropha should know—he’d had his birds intercept her letters. Through his network of spies he had spread the news of the coming change, a princess by rights divine to be implanted on the Firstling throne, with nothing less than an Amaranthine seated at her side.

  “I would welcome the help of any Westerling with a view to advancement in the coming changes.”

  Liatris twirled the silver horn in her fingers, spinning chromegreen moonlight into her eyes. Her pet, Jatropha saw, had scratched lines of blood across her shins and was busy lapping at the trickles, though Liatris didn’t appear to notice. “And when are we to see these changes? After I am dead and gone, I suppose, with one of these fools frittering away my silk?”

  “No. Soon. I must school her first in the art of dominance, but that won’t take long.”

  “So the claim is settled, then? You have named her?”

  Jatropha hesitated. The legitimate Berenzargol claim, sold by the family’s matriarch a hundred years ago, had cost him the wealth of a large Province to buy. And only just in time: Elatine’s legions had reached the edges of the Second soon after, frightening the moneyed populace—including the herald-keepers—into hiding. Now, with the deeds in his possession, he had nominated Arabis Berenzargol over her older half brothers and sisters, as was his right by the statutes of the First, her extended family more than compensated in their rise to power.

  “I might allow young Lyonothamnus to keep his throne until that time, should he be amenable to my extremely favourable terms.” He caught the look of consternation on Liatris’s old face. “But not his mother, not the Fallopia. Only exile will do for her.”

  “Too kind a gesture, some might say.”

  “Let them say it.”

  Liatris lifted her Monkman into her lap. It stared up at Jatropha, more than a little Prism-ish.