The Weight of the World

by Tom Toner

  Zeliolopos’s painted belts of colour, closer than he’d ever seen them, drenched the sky, brushed pale pastel by the moon’s own smoky atmosphere. The light fell over the muddy lines of volcanic hills like cloud shadows of stained glass, coloured in stripes by the giant planet. Maril didn’t need more than a passing knowledge of his sun charts to guess where they’d been taken: AntiZelio-Glumatis, the closest of the Lopos moons. Tidal gravity from Zeliolopos, exerted like a vast celestial snake constricting its prey, had moulded Glumatis into a simmering volcanic world, spotted every few miles with pointy, ashen slopes. The land they marched upon was fertile with yellow grasses fed by the light, almost microscopic slew of constantly falling ash. Around them, spindly coppices of lush yellow trees framed a worn path to an assortment of grey hilltop buildings and a brown, gurgling river clouded over with flies. He chanced a look behind, seeing the black hulk of the Tarmon Barbinel sitting there shimmering in the heat. From a second container in its hold, the procession of cheerful Bie were also being led out, their young Zelioceti minder—its left hand wrapped in a thick wad of bloodied cloth—whipping its driftwood branch across the grass to get them moving.

  They trudged mile after mile along a wide, slushy road, thick at its edges with fallen yellow leaves. Just as Maril thought he was about to collapse, he felt a rumbling through the ground and a huge lug-train passed by, its hundreds of wheels kicking up a spray and showering them with mud. The iron convoy rumbled on and on, gushing white smoke from its funnels that coated the Bult and his men alike, its crew of darkly cassocked Zelioceti raising their pointed hats in mock reverence. Maril saw through the spray that it was hauling hundreds of huge blocks of warped glass that flashed in the sunlight. After half a mile of mud and swearing, the end of the thing came into sight—a gun emplacement connected to the final car by thick iron chains. It splashed past, leaving a stew of fumes in its wake, and the crew wiped themselves down as best they could. Maril glanced at the Bult. They’d hardly flinched the whole time, accepting their shower with an apparent inner calm. The leader wiped his eyes and carried on, his chains hauled with fresh vigour as the lead Zelio turned off the road.

  “Furto.”

  “Here.”

  “Guirm.”

  “Captain.”

  “Ribio.”

  “Yahsire.”

  “Timose.”

  “Here.”

  “Arns and Iblo.”

  No one spoke. He’d seen them, he was sure, when they’d been led onto the road. Now they were gone.

  “Drazlo.”

  “Yup,” said the Lacaille half-breed.

  “Jospor.”

  “Capt’n Maril.”

  “Slupe.”

  “Aye,” whispered a small, wavering voice. The little deformed gunner had been dragged the last halfmile through the mud, unable to keep up.

  “Veril.”

  “Yassir.”

  Maril swallowed. That was it, the sole remains of the jolly force hired on Drolgins, unaware that most of them wouldn’t live to see the turn of the Amaranthine new year. He’d done a fine job indeed. He thought, absurdly, of the Amaranthine who had paid him on the Old World. They were at least two months late for their rendezvous at Hangland; he supposed another Privateer or Great Company had been hired in their place by this point. The Ducats he’d already received, the equivalent to twenty years’ good haul, were at the bottom of the Coriopil Sea now, where they’d stay until the fish there grew brains and ruled the skies.

  He went to the greasy bars and looked out.

  The whole place was one big mosaic, the floors and ceilings decorated with an assortment of hundreds of thousands of mismatched ceramic slivers rudely grouted together. The glossy space reminded Maril of the inside of a cracked, aged seashell, tinted in rainbow hues like a pearl. There was no sign of the Bult or anyone else, though looking down through the single barred window in his cell he could see the Bie as they basked in the tiled courtyard, apparently free to do as they pleased. Ramshackle grey walls spattered with droppings surrounded the place—a hermitage, he thought he’d heard the Zelios call it—concealing most of the lands beyond from view, though a few yellow trees poked over the parapets and a trail of ash had swept inside through the open gateway, gathering on the tiles and spinning every now and then under a warm eddy of wind. He knew he would see the stewards of this place soon enough when he noticed that ash, watching it twirl in a vortex and dissipate.

  Veril and Drazlo had already tried their hands at the mortice locks in their cell without success. From the looks of the scratched old things, they reckoned they weren’t the first prisoners here to go to work on them. In the corner of each cell, a metal drum had been provided for the crew to drop their waste, but he’d already told his men to ignore it and do what they had to do wherever they liked. Let the obsessive creatures squirm.

  Maril sat down in the corner of the cell he shared with Furto, listening to the hushed chatter of his crew as he pulled off his boots. They came away with a sucking sound, filled with drying ash mud. He inspected his wrinkled feet, wriggling his toes, noticing the stuff had done a surpassingly good job of cleaning the wounds on his soles of the rusty metal from the tanker. Aside from a sprained wrist, sore throat and even sorer head, Maril didn’t think he was doing too badly. Of course, he would die, and soon, but in the meantime at least he felt better than expected.

  “Master-at-arms,” he said, moving barefoot to the bars and looking along to Jospor’s cell, “I need that little tincture box.”

  Jospor stirred. The master-at-arms knew precious little, but that was more than anyone else in the company, and Maril had made him ship’s doctor on their second voyage out. “Just a minute, Captain.”

  Maril heard Jospor rummaging in his Voidsuit. He’d made the master-at-arms sew the expensive case in specially, so that he never forgot to bring it when they left the ship. The others he could see in their cells stirred and looked towards the sound. Jospor grunted, obviously digging deep and popping stitches, before the welcome sound of a metal clink on ceramic.

  “Shall I just—?”

  The scrape of metal. The small box came skimming past. Maril crouched, lunged between the bars and caught it.

  Packed inside some stained linen were various tiny cutting tools and needles, all decorated with an appropriate amount of dried blood to prove they’d been useful in the past. Maril pulled out some damp thread that must have got wet on Coriopil and popped the lid on a little glass bottle filled with brown liquid. He sniffed. Limewine.

  Furto peered over his shoulder. “Anything?”

  Maril shrugged, rubbing his beard. “Might be able to start a fire.” Most Vulgar Voidsuits were extremely flammable simply as a result of the poor choice they had in impermeable materials, but a suit wasn’t something you ruined lightly. He tutted, resealing the limewine—much to Furto’s disappointment—and pocketing the box. If only he’d ordered more spare equipment sewed into their suits. Yurbs the welder would’ve had them out of here in a jiffy.

  But Yurbs had taken a sparker in his thigh, they said, erupting like a pink firework as the Zelioceti claimed the beach. It was Drazlo, clever Drazlo, who’d apparently shot through Yurbs, using the flaming Vulgar like a dazzling shield.

  “Drazlo,” he said, hearing the half-Lacaille stir. “Any thoughts?”

  The Ringum hesitated. He’d been born on a Vulgar moon, loyal through and through. “As long as those Bult stay locked away, Captain, we might be all right yet. The Quetterel hate them more than anyone because they used to come down to these Ceti moons for the pickings.”

  “Before the Vulgar chased ‘em off,” Furto offered.

  “Yes. They owe us,” Jospor said.

  Maril banged one boot after the other against the wall, dislodging as much mud as he could. “Don’t expect the Quetterel to see it that way. We ignored the toll and dropped in uninvited.”

  “They’ll flay us,” whimpered little Slupe.

  The chamber fell sile
nt. Maril considered his boots and pushed one back on again. “Veril, Drazlo, all of you, might as well get back to work on the locks.”

  “They won’t—” Veril began tiredly.

  “Just do it.” Maril slammed the empty boot on the floor without raising his voice.

  The chiselling resumed, interspersed with grumbles. Furto huddled in the corner, inspecting his fingers. They’d taken his rings. Maril went to the window.

  Down below, the Bie appeared to have mostly fallen asleep, bathing their portly, cream-coloured bellies in the sun, tails flicking at curious flies. Gramps, their eldest, was nowhere to be seen. Maril pressed himself to the bars, the cool air ruffling his hair, in an attempt to see more of the grounds, but the window had been recessed into a thick wall and a blackened frame of ash-darkened stone blocked any view to either side. His hand went to his throat, accompanied by a sudden vivid memory of the dream, of the silver-skinned creatures. They’d saved his life, but why?

  The frantic whispering and abrupt silence of his crew interrupted his thoughts. He turned from the window. A shadow stretched into the outer hallway, darkening the mosaic floor. It grew larger as whatever cast it walked into the room.

  Maril had barely dealt with the race before but he knew the etiquette. He moved away from the bars, eyes downcast, catching sight of the Quetterel’s black feet pacing along the tiles in their direction. The blurred black shape, seen out of the corner of his eye, stopped at the bars some way off to Maril’s left, an uncertainty in its movement. Maril took a breath and stepped forward, glancing up.

  The Prism’s robed head swung towards him. He nodded. It shuffled over to his cell, its toes making little padding noises on the tiles. Another had come in behind with a broom and began to sweep, carefully and methodically.

  It faced him, a strip of dark blue cloth covering its wide nose and revealing only its dark-rimmed, restless red eyes. Its black, tufted ears had been pushed back beneath its cowl and the rest of its body, barring its hairy Monkmanish paws and feet, was shrouded in a deep blue, tentlike cape.

  “Why come to Coriopil?” it asked in Vulgar. Its voice was light, almost musical, with just the gristly hint of old age.

  “The Bult shot us down,” he replied clearly, deciding not to try his hand at his interrogator’s language. Perhaps he’d attempt a Quetterel thank you later. Everyone liked a thank you.

  “Why come to Tau Ceti?” The Quetterel stood perfectly still, like an item of furniture beneath a dark dust shroud.

  “An urgent contract. We were wrong to try to pass through, but we were being pursued.” He thought of his men listening in the other cells, hating himself for what he was about to say. “Our late captain made the decision, not us.”

  “Late? Dead?”

  “Dead.”

  They looked at each other.

  “Mess,” the Quetterel said suddenly, glaring at the mud on the floor of Maril’s cell. The other, most likely a female beneath all the black, had already swept half the chamber floor up to a neat line, depositing the tiny mound of ash near the entrance. She turned at the word, eyes widening in the shadows of her hood.

  The Quetterel were extraordinary among the Prism for being the only breed interested in order of any sort. A compulsive cleanliness governed all aspects of their lives and resulted in their vicious hatred of nearly every other Prism race, whom they regarded as filthy, disorganised and untrustworthy. In that sense, Maril reflected, they weren’t wrong. They had chosen the chaotic moons of Zeliolopos for their kingdom apparently out of an urge to make them ordered again, and down on their mysterious worlds they devoted their lives to a near-religious level of personal grooming and tidiness. Any other breeds that landed in their part of the Investiture, even by accident, were boiled or flayed of all their accumulated filth and roasted into compacted ash to be made into glass or ceramics. Maril could well imagine the Quetterels’ horror and disgust at finding a troop of unwashed Vulgar on the doorstep, let alone their most hated of adversaries, the Bult. His eyes flicked to the glazed tiles of the room, suddenly wondering how many had been made from previous prisoners.

  “I think you will be happy,” the Quetterel said, still regarding the mud from Maril’s boots with disdain. “Your attackers are first to be peeled and—” It scowled and clicked its fingers aggressively, glancing at the female Quetterel, who had sidled up with her broom at the ready. “What word is . . . emulsified.”

  Maril nodded, uttering the word of Quetterel thanks he’d kept in reserve.

  The monk barked a laugh at his attempt, considering the mud once again before sweeping from the room. The female, who hadn’t looked at the prisoners once, followed immediately, placing the broom carefully against the wall.

  Maril listened to them making their way down what must have been stairs and into chambers below. He shushed the others as they began to mutter, ears trained.

  Bult-speak was something Vulgar travellers practised almost as superstition, as a sort of insurance against ever finding themselves in the demons’ presence. It was an inexpressive, ancient language quite dissimilar from that of any other Prism, but a decent handful of words were well known and passed around. He heard a few of them now, uttered in what must have been another lock-up on the floor beneath.

  Hzurzl-mei: why. Shiracht: penalty. Whuiorr: pain. The old Quetterel was trying to threaten its captives. Maril and Furto looked at each other with faint astonishment, and he felt an instant of pity for the strange monk. Perhaps, like Maril, the old Quetterel had never met a Bult before.

  After a few minutes of fruitless effort, the Quetterel monk appeared to give up. They heard the rasp of a lock, the bang of doors. The butterflies in Maril’s stomach flittered and swirled, and he went at once to the window.

  The Bie had wandered off, leaving the lonely, sunlit place to be pecked over by the moon’s odd birds. They scattered as someone strode towards them; the Quetterel with the Bult captain following behind, his head trapped in a catch-pole.

  Maril noticed—even though it towered over its captor—that the Bult wasn’t quite Amaranthine height, as he’d first thought. It went willingly enough, despite being dragged along like a prize Elepin. Maril’s eyes moved to its hands, manacled behind its back. The long, brown fingers were working feverishly away like spiders on something he couldn’t make out. He crammed himself closer against the window bars to see, his neck protesting.

  One of the Bult’s narrow wrists wormed free and clutched the other, the tin shackle dangling loose.

  He shook his head, gripping the bars, his throat still too sore to shout. Furto got to his feet to see what all the commotion was about, his eyes widening. Maril grabbed his boot from the floor, pounding it against the bars, hoping the studs would make enough sound.

  They disappeared from view.

  “What now?” Furto whined.

  He took a breath, his panicked mind blank. From outside came the frenzied screaming of the Quetterel monk.

  “Oh, fuckering shittery,” whispered Drazlo. The rest of the crew had begun muttering similar oaths at the sound. The screams became muffled, mimicking for a moment a crazed, breathless laugh, and then all went still, the afternoon sun blazing through the hallway and into the room.

  Maril tapped his knuckles together, moving from one foot to the other as he stared through the window. Furto climbed the bars, his head just small enough to fit between them so that he might see a little way down into the courtyard.

  “Anything?” Maril asked, clinging to the bars himself.

  “Nothing . . .” The young Vulgar hesitated, his voice suddenly rising in panic. “Wait—”

  Another scream, much nearer now. And not a single shot fired. The wail dissipated with a faint echo.

  “They’ll come for us next,” Veril moaned. Slupe whimpered.

  “Quiet,” Jospor snapped. “We’ve had worse than this, hey, Maril? I thought we were dead for sure in Hangland, when the knight came after us, and then on Port Elsbet, all those Lacaille and tha
t bear-thing charging around. Not to mention being shot to pieces and crashing head first into a water moon.”

  “But this is different!” Guirm wailed. “They know where we are!”

  “No, it’s not,” Jospor said. “Just think—everything that’s gone wrong in your horrible little life, you’ve survived. You’ll look back on this when the next terrible thing happens and you’re whingeing and whimpering and crying out for home, and you’ll feel better for it. I promise you that.”

  Maril could have hugged his master-at-arms. He sat, heart pounding, trying to smile at Furto but only succeeding in distressing the little Vulgar further. It occurred to Maril that some of the men had never seen him smile.

  “Furto,” he began, attempting to think of something the boy could do to distract himself, when the Vulgar’s skin whitened and he went very still.

  A shadow had returned, lengthening as it advanced across the hall.

  Maril stood up, his boot held ready. The shadow hesitated. He inhaled a shuddering breath and spoke.

  “Bult,” he said, silencing his whimpering crew. “Bult!”

  The strip of shadow waited just beyond the doorway.

  Maril’s mouth appeared to have dried up. He swallowed. “We share a common enemy here,” he continued, surprising himself by getting straight to the point. “Let us help you.”