by Tim Lebbon
He’d heard talk of fleeting lizards, but had never been interested enough to investigate further. The Ald – and especially its army, the Spike – was surrounded with rumours of arcane knowledge and technology, of which the steam weapons were most visible.
‘I went on a hunt, once,’ she said. ‘I was basic training with the Spike, and the Blader took us down into the caverns beneath New Kotrugam. Deep down.’ She worked the square as she spoke, making sure the dust lines were straight and the steam valves properly primed. She was ready to perform a racking now, but Bon realised she wanted to tell him this story. As a matter of trust, perhaps. Or simply an admission. ‘There were hints that many had gone deeper, and we’d heard the rumours, of course.’
‘The Ald think it’s a voiceway to the Fade down there.’
‘Well.’ Leki paused, kneeling, and looked up at Bon. ‘The lizards are a voiceway to something. They flit in and out of existence. I caught one.’ She looked at her hands. ‘I held it as surely as I’ve ever held anything before. And then it was no longer there. And then it was there again.’ She clasped and unclasped her hands. ‘For a while I wasn’t sure if it was me travelling, or the lizard.’
Bon shrugged, looked out across the lake. The sun was sinking into the forest beyond the water, setting the trees afire and spilling its colours across the lake’s surface. It was beautiful.
‘But you’re not common Spike,’ he said confidently.
She paused only for a moment. ‘Arcanum,’ she said.
Bon gasped. ‘Arcanum,’ he echoed. They were the darker side of the Spike, less known, much more mysterious. I can’t allow this. Aeon hasn’t risen for war. Venden would have never been helping something that wanted to return for war! He swallowed, then took a step forward.
Leki whipped something from her pocket and aimed it at him. Juda’s steam pistol. The valve plugged into its barrel glistened with moisture, heavily primed.
‘No, Bon.’
‘You won’t shoot me.’
‘Neither of us wants to find out. Now Bon … just listen,’ Leki said softly, and she commenced racking.
The valves steamed gently, and the cross of shoot dust glowed a little, faded, glowed again. Between blinks Bon saw it vanish and reappear, and parts of the ground around it grew darker than night, and deeper. A shiver chilled Bon’s spine and tingled his balls, but he thought of Venden again and looked away. His son might have loved this. His son, had he remained on Alderia, might well have travelled down beneath the city and touched the fleeting lizards himself. He had never been one to listen to authority, and had always been curious.
Leki, still kneeling, still pointing the pistol unwaveringly, leaned forward until her face was close to the crossed square. She began whispering, and Bon walked quietly away, no longer interested in what message she was sending across the sea.
He sat by the lake and swished his hand through the water. It was music to the falling night. Soon, Leki knelt beside him and put one hand on his shoulder.
‘It’s done,’ she said.
‘And now, war,’ Bon said.
‘They’ll come, and it will end quickly.’
‘Like last time?’
Leki did not respond.
‘You’re not certain at all,’ he said. ‘You’re scared.’
‘I can only hope,’ she said quietly.
They knelt together and watched the last of the sun sink away, then she stood, groaning as her knees clicked.
‘We should make camp. And in the morning, we’ll try tracking Aeon once more. They’ll need to know where it is when they land.’
Bon wanted to flee, to run and leave it all behind. But he felt at the centre of events. Things between him and Leki were far from over.
Chapter 14
blader
Blader Sol Merry had fallen in love with an amphy. For a man who had gained intense respect and trust in New Kotrugam, who had high ambitions in the Spike, and who was a Fade devout, such a pairing was frowned upon, though not entirely forbidden. It was preferred for the Spike to marry into their own. That reduced any chance of conflict within the army, and also lessened the amount of distant blood in the ruling Ald’s own defence force. The amphys were of Alderia, but so far south that some considered them as Outers. Such prejudice could be damaging. Such love could distract.
The argument had never sat well with Sol. His family’s heritage was Steppe clan through and through, and though he was the third generation to serve in the Spike, his history was plain for all to see. He bore the wide shoulders and narrow hips, the enlarged teeth, the strong fingers and toes of those climbers and canyoners suited to living in Alderia’s expansive, remote, central mountainous regions. He was almost as far from a model Spike soldier as an amphy, and that made his love for Lechmy Borle even stronger.
The one time a fellow Spike had questioned Sol’s dedication to the Ald after his affair with Leki had come to light, Sol had beaten the man unconscious, dragged him from the barracks where they were based and tied him to an old execution column in one of New Kotrugam’s more exclusive quarters. He’d been driven with fury, but also restrained by the Spike training which informed much of his life. The civilians who had watched the gruesome spectacle had feared what they might see, but the Spike who had followed knew that it would not end in murder. The execution column remained as dry as it had for generations, and the man was left tied there long enough for humiliation to colour him, and for shame to lower his eyes.
Sol was now his Blader, commanding him and forty-nine other soldiers. The man, Gallan Park, was Sol’s Side. In or out of battle, it was Gallan’s responsibilty to be Sol’s ears and eyes, and to take his place should he fall. It was the closest of relationships in the Spike’s structure, and the two men had a brotherly trust for each other. Such was often the way with soldiers.
And Lechmy Borle had become his wife.
Sol stood at the ship’s rail and looked ahead of them across the sea. The waters were wild and high, spray stinging, waves undulating like the Forsaken Sea’s angry, flexing muscles. This was not Sol’s first time on a ship, but it was his first time on these waters. They were even more violent than he had expected, and a third of his men were laid up below decks, vomiting and groaning as they prayed that Venthia would return to take them away. Reports from other ships in the fleet told of similar scenes.
He focused on the horizon, though it was lost in mist. Then he closed his eyes. His own sickness rose, but it was willpower alone that drove it down. It would not be proper to be seen puking his dinner up across the deck in front of his men. Their Blader, he must always be stronger than them all.
Please let this storm abate, he thought. Venthia, touch these waters and calm them, just for me. Or I might just curl up and fucking die. But Venthia had forsaken this ocean. Sol felt far from the Fade here, and that made him naked.
He leaned against the railing and groaned softly, and it was Leki who gave him comfort. He looked down at the sea crashing explosively against the hull and smiled, because Leki would love this. She would revel in the saltwater smell and its stinging touch, and soon he would see her again.
Someone approached him from behind. He did not hear or smell them, but he knew they were there. He squinted slightly and sensed their mood – queasy, but calm. No ill intent. A shadow flickered against the railing beside him, cast by the hesitant sun, and he recognised his Side.
‘Gallan,’ he said, turning.
‘Blader Merry.’ Gallan raised a fist to his brow.
‘You can drop the formalities,’ Sol said. ‘They’re for the training grounds and ceremonial marches, not the battlefield.’
‘I wasn’t aware we were at war.’ Gallan’s voice was light with humour.
‘A third of the men on every ship are incapacitated and you think this isn’t a fight?’
Gallan rolled his eyes. ‘It stinks down there.’
‘You’re not feeling sick yourself?’
‘No,’ Gallan said, but his
gaze flickered past Sol to the sea beyond.
‘I am,’ Sol said. ‘If this cursed ship had a private corner I’d puke up my insides three times over.’
‘By the Fade, me too,’ Gallan said, somewhat relieved. ‘My legs and guts aren’t built for the sea.’
‘Only another day,’ Sol said.
‘That’s why I came. To let you know a racking has been received.’
‘Leki?’
Gallan nodded. His embarrassment was always evident when her name came up. ‘They’re transcribing now; should be ready by midnight.’
‘Thank you,’ Sol said. ‘Will you watch over the transcribing and bring it to me as soon as it’s ready?’
‘Of course.’ Gallan touched his forehead again, smiled, turned and walked back across the deck. Sol knew how unsettled Gallan was by the two rackers they had on board – blind women, young and beautiful and mad, who were sometimes almost not there when the air of their cabin was awash with shoot dust. Sol knew that to see them one always had to look from the corner of the eye. He knew also that their talent was a science, though one unknown by most. But Gallan was a simple soul. To him the rackers stank of the unknown, were part of Arcanum, and were best left alone.
Sol enjoyed his Side’s discomfort. They were good friends, but the history between them kept a level of subtle tension alive, and their friendship constantly alert.
The Blader decided to take another tour of the warship. He would not be able to sleep now that he knew a racking message had been received, and he had to find a way to kill time until the racker had transcribed. Leki had been gone from him for over twenty days, and to see words muttered by her own sweet mouth, racked by her smooth, webbed hand, would calm his stormy seas.
He paused outside the ship’s rear hold wherein the Fader priests waited and offered a brief prayer to the seven gods of the Fade. They were on a mission for those gods, and Sol felt their influence as he prayed. Though absent from the seas they sailed, Venthia sought to calm his tumultuous waters, those angry tides inside. Shore breathed with him. Flaze stoked the fires of his soul, whose heat and flames would burn bright as this journey moved on. Astradus promised solid land beneath him soon, Lillium gave his life meaning with the shadow of his death, and Fresilia waited for him deeper in the ship, in those weapons of war he would inspect once more after this brief visit. Heuthen, god of consciousness, oversaw his perceptions of the world and informed his faith. It was Heuthen who stole away most whenever Sol dispatched an enemy, and his weapon belt held over a hundred notches.
Sol took a deep breath to silence his whispered prayers, then knocked on the door.
It opened almost immediately, as if the priests had been expecting his visit. He entered, the door was closed behind him, and for a while he was the centre of attention. His skin crawled with their gazes. He bowed his head slightly, then noticed the three Spike generals at the far side of the hold.
They didn’t tell me, Sol thought. A brief flush of anger increased his heartbeat and throbbed in his ears, but he did his best not to show it. Blader he might be, but he had always been trained to know his place.
‘Blader Merry,’ one of the priests said. She wore the heavy woollen garments favoured by most younger Fader priests, eschewing the more ceremonial robes worn by older members of the order. Her jacket was well cut, her trousers tucked into fine boots, and a bound leather belt held her jacket closed around her narrow waist. She might have once been attractive, but frequent fasting had given her young face an aged hue, and her eyes were sunken, cheeks drawn. ‘Another honour this stormy night. We’ve just welcomed a visit from the generals.’
‘So I see,’ Sol said, wincing inwardly. Petulance was even worse than anger.
‘Forgive us,’ General Cove said, standing and walking around the hold’s perimeter. There were three covered objects at its centre, each the size of a recumbent shire. Three Fade priests sat around these objects, heads bowed, praying, paying no attention to the exchange. ‘We came to visit briefly with the Engines, and I …’ He waved a hand, as if dismissing his own apology. ‘I saw no point in troubling you with our movements.’
Sol was in charge of the warship. Its captain sailed it and governed the crew, but it was a military charge, an attack ship, and bearing Sol and the forty-nine men of his Blade – as well as the Engines and their attendant priests and Arcanum technicians – was its purpose. It was not the general’s flagship. Sol should have been informed of all visitors.
‘It’s a pleasure to see you,’ Sol said, saluting.
‘The Engines are safe, as you see,’ the priest said. She stood close to Sol’s right side, her hand held out and almost holding his arm. ‘Secured to the floor, protected, and given homage.’
‘All as it should be,’ Sol said, smiling and nodding. His gaze was drawn again and again to the covered Engines. He now knew the history of these things’ predecessors, deployed to destroy Skythe’s insane and false god. He had felt honoured being told the true story only days before, and shocked that the history he had always believed – that the Skythians had destroyed themselves with diseases plucked from Outer lands and weaponised – was to camouflage the awful truth. But such new knowledge also unsettled him. If such a truth could be withheld, and imparted to him only when necessary … then what value did that truth hold? Some nights since, he had lain awake, his mind wandering, outlandish tales now possibly holding their own sheen of accuracy. He’d heard the tavern rumours, just like everyone – that the Alderians were the aggressors in the ancient war, not the Skythians and their false god. And many times in the past it had been his job to put down these rumours when they had started to spread. More than one man or woman had died beneath his blade, their version of history truer than his own, yet more forbidden.
But his was not to question why.
‘There’s been a racking message received,’ Sol said, and he saw in the general’s eyes that he already knew.
‘Yes, from Lechmy Borle,’ General Cove said. ‘You must be as keen to hear it as us.’
‘Yes, General.’ His relationship with Leki was frowned upon, even with her being part of Arcanum. Sol sometimes wondered how closely they were both watched.
‘Let’s pray it’s the news we are hoping for.’
‘General?’
‘Landing points. And perhaps news of their false god.’
‘Aeon,’ Sol said, noticing the priest’s eyes flicker with distaste. That pleased him. His beliefs were solid, but he had always found Fade priests so righteous and superior.
General Cove was two decades older than Sol, his face scarred from battle, experienced in putting down Outer insurrections on the south of Alderia and something of a legend among young Spike soldiers. But to Sol he had become more of a politician than a soldier when he became a general. A trained and proficient fighter, his battles were conducted now behind closed doors, lies their tactics, hidden purposes their aims. Sol fervently hoped that he would never crave such a position when his years wore on, or be faced with accepting the same.
‘You have a purpose here, Blader Merry?’ One of the other generals had spoken, but Sol was not sure which. It was dark in their corner, air hazed with spiced smoke.
‘Simply the Engines,’ he said.
‘Yours to place, and to consider no more,’ General Cove said. His smile remained, but his voice was harder now.
‘Of course.’
The general clapped his hands and looked around the room, gathering attention that was already upon him. The three priests around the covered Engines did not move. Sol so craved to see the Engines, but that would come when they landed. Until then, there was time to pass and, when Leki’s message was transcribed, a landing to plan.
‘Then let’s pass the rest of the night usefully. You and your men should sleep. And we have a battle to muse upon.’
One of the priests muttered a prayer so quickly that his words escaped Sol. The priest who had welcomed him in, touched his arm at last, but it was to urge
him back out of the room.
The door closed gently behind him, and firmly. Sol did not wait to hear what might be said. He knew his place, and he continued along the gangway until he reached the ladder leading down into the deeper, main hold area.
While the priests prayed over the mysterious devices and his generals plotted, he would inspect the other cargo on this ship. The Engines might be the bearers of magic, but Sol’s trust and confidence would always lie in his Blades’ most fearsome weapons of war.
There were four handlers awake, all of them busy feeding, watering, stoking, calming, coaxing and priming the Blade’s live weapons. The hold echoed with noise – the creaks of the ship and the crash of waves against the hull, counterpointed by the noises from within. Some breathed heavily as they slept. Others groaned. A few growled.
The smell of the weapons hold always reminded Sol of the stench of battle. There was shit and piss, the rankness of old blood, and the constant animal smells that seemed to accompany him everywhere now he was a Blader. Wet fur, rough hide, knotted feathers. He breathed in and felt at home, and one of the handlers glanced up and saw him. She touched her brow, but Sol waved a hand, dismissing her formality.
‘Everything well?’ he asked.
‘The lyons are both sick, but it’s only made them more feisty.’
Sol nodded and smiled. The lyons were always feisty, whether sick or well, fat or thin, good-natured or grumpy. Mood rarely altered the heat of the flames they emitted from their heavily toothed mouths.
‘And everything else?’
‘Sleeping the sleep of the innocent, mostly.’ The handler smiled. She was one of his youngest soldiers, Tamma, and her enthusiasm for the weaponry had quickly marked her as a handler. He had once seen her leading a trio of rawpanzies into a house in the south of New Kotrugam harbouring four escaped murderers. Tamma had stood just inside the door issuing orders, and after a few moments the rawpanzies emerged. They were bloodied. Inside, little was recognisable as once belonging to a human being.
‘Good,’ Sol said. ‘They’ll need their rest. You, too.’