The Cleansing Flame

by Alec Hutson

  “Thank you,” I say, and Bell flashes me a quick smile.

  “To be honest, I just wanted to move a little faster. Hiyah!” She flicks out her switch and the horses pick up their pace.

  Fair enough. I settle back against the wooden planks and study Bell’s profile. She’s not beautiful, in the traditional sense, as her face is long and her lips thin, but her skin is so white and unblemished it almost looks to be ceramic. Like her father, her eyes are a vibrant blue, but while Poz’s hair has turned white, hers is a black so deep it shades to purple, reminding me of a raven’s feathers. She catches me watching her and makes a face.

  “Stop looking at me or I’ll make you run alongside the wagon.”

  “Sorry. I have to know – what’s this thing of glass and metal you and your father wear on your faces?”

  Bell reaches up and touches the round frames. “These? Spectacles. Papa ground them himself.”

  “Spectacles?”

  She takes the object off and hands it to me. “Here. Look through the lenses.”

  I hold the spectacles up to my eyes and the world blurs. “Why would you want to wear something that makes it harder to see?”

  With an amused snort she takes back the spectacles and slips them on again. “You’re not very smart, are you? They help me to see, but the glass is suited only for my eyes.”

  Such strange sorcery. I also notice that in the brief moment when she removed these spectacles she had looked much prettier.

  “Your gaze is a bit unnerving,” she says. “I’ve never seen silver eyes before. Are they common in your homeland?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, right. Well, Papa is investigating your memory loss, and he is tenacious when something catches his interest. If there are any answers in our library, he’ll find them.”

  “Your library?”

  “Have a look,” she says, indicating with her chin the curtain separating us from what is inside the wagon.

  I hesitate, unsure whether I should really disturb the old scientist, and she lets out a sigh and pulls aside the patched cloth.

  The interior of the wagon is both larger and smaller than it looks from the outside. Smaller because there’s only a strip of the wooden flooring visible, so narrow that anyone not as thin as Bell would have to turn sideways to navigate their way, and bigger because I’m shocked at the sheer amount of stuff crammed within. Shelving is built into the walls of the wagon, and it’s filled with strange instruments of glass and metal and all manner of other oddities: the skull of what looks to be a large, three-eyed rodent; a metallic flower emerging from a glass container; a chunk of ancient wood incised with charred runes; and the gnarled, pale fetuses of unknown animals floating in cloudy jars. But these items appear to be inaccessible, as piles of books are stacked so high as to form a barrier. For a moment I wonder why every jounce of the wagon doesn’t make a mess in here, and then I see that nearly translucent threads are stretched across the piles, apparently keeping them in place.

  Poz is there, ensconced in a cushioned chair that looks like it’s being consumed by a wave of dusty grimoires and leather-bound tomes. The old man peers at me through his spectacles, blinking owlishly. A massive book is open on his lap, several long red strips of fabric dangling like tongues from the spots of interest he has already marked.

  “Yes?” he asks, sounding slightly peeved at being interrupted.

  “Any promising leads?” Bell calls back to him.

  “Perhaps. This is a medical treatise written by the first-among-equals physicker Chevilinias during the waning years of the Nevarik Collective. He maintains that the best way to cure an amnesic patient is to jar his head with force equal to the blow that first caused the injury. If the severity is unknown, he recommends being kicked in the head by a mule.”

  “Magdo?” Bell asks, with slightly disconcerting enthusiasm.

  “I was thinking the same. But perhaps I’ll keep searching for a less potentially lethal treatment.”

  “Thanks for that,” I say, turning away from the scientist as Bell lets the curtain fall.

  “You see? He’ll come up with a way to bring back your memories.”

  “Hopefully one which doesn’t involve me getting brained by your horse.”

  “We can only hope.”

  “How long until we reach this city?”

  Bell stirs beside me, returning from whatever reverie the rhythmic motion of the wagon has induced. She peers into the distance, shading her eyes against the late afternoon light. As the day has aged, the forests hemming the road have darkened and become more ominous, though Bell hadn’t shown any nervousness. Perhaps bandits are not common along these roads.

  “Well, we won’t get there today. Or tomorrow. We’ll have to find lodging in Soril. Nice little town; we’ve stayed there before. Good inns, delicious oranges.”

  “Tell me about the city. What did you call it – the City of Masks?”

  “Ysala,” Bell says, stifling a yawn. “The largest city south of Hesset’s Wall – that’s the range we can see in the distance. The folk around here think the saint Hesset raised the mountains to protect the south from the Grand and Enlightened Empire of Zim, which sprawls on the other side for about a thousand leagues.”

  “Enlightened? Doesn’t sound like such a bad place.”

  “Oh, it’s not. The exarchs of Zim are like gardeners, cultivating a rich and beautiful culture through careful pruning. But not everyone wants to give over their sovereignty to the social engineers of the empire. Ysala is a free city, like most of the south. Though its . . . method of governance is nearly as extreme as the demarchists of the Shattered Isles. To an outsider the city would appear leaderless.”

  “It has no king?”

  “No king. No archon. No senate. Order is maintained by the private armies of the Trusts, which are something like merchant guilds and something like gangs. There are thirteen Trusts, each with a very dramatic name like the Fire Knife Trust or the Red Trillium Trust.”

  “And where do the masks come in?”

  “Well, the citizens of Ysala often wear masks when conducting business. They think it gives them some advantage in negotiations. The heads of the Trusts actually always go masked – it’s said that no one knows what each of the leaders of the Trusts looks like. That way they can live their lives unafraid of an assassin’s dagger. There are stories of citizens only realizing that their quiet, unassuming neighbor was the head of a Trust when they died and their identity was finally revealed. The lady we know as the Contessa is the head of the Gilded Lynx Trust.”

  “Hm. With thirteen private armies roaming the city, there must be all sorts of bloodshed.”

  Bell shakes her head. “No. In fact, it’s one of the safest cities outside of Enlightened Zim. The folks running the Trusts are merchants, first and foremost, and conflict is bad for business. They do their best to keep the peace, both inside the city and out. It’s why we were willing to travel the roads even after our armed escort abandoned us to bury himself in a barmaid’s ample bosom. Every town on the roads to Ysala has a contingent of warriors from the Trusts to ensure that travelers and trade remain unmolested.”

  “Is that one of them?” I ask, gesturing ahead to where a gray-skinned creature has stepped out of the trees holding a curving ax of black iron.

  “Tainted saints!” Bell cries, pulling hard on the reins to stop the horses.

  “That’s a no, then?” I ask as more of the figures slip from the forest to block the road. They are clad in a motley assortment of leather and dented metal that looks to have been scavenged from many different battlefields, and where the armor does not cover their flesh I see swirling blue tattoos. Still, they could pass for human – despite their skin – except for their faces, which are squashed and bestial, with tusks curving up from their jaws. All of them hold crudely fashioned weapons of black iron: swords and axes and spiked maces.

  “Papa, get out here!” Bell yells, and a moment later her father p
ushes through the curtain.

  His face pales when he sees the creatures arrayed across the road. “Kvah,” he says, and I can hear the distaste in his voice. “Filthy things. But what are they doing down from the Wall? They never raid anywhere near Ysala.”

  One of the tusked monsters saunters forward, his great double bladed ax slung over his shoulder. He’s larger than the others, broad shouldered and barrel chested, and a nasty scar curves across his hairless head. “Bloody ‘ell, boys, look what we caught,” he says loudly, and a few chortles rise from the rest. “That wagon filled with gold, old man?”

  “Books, I’m afraid,” Poz shouts back. “Would you gentlemen happen to be readers?”

  More harsh laughter, and the largest kvah even has to wipe tears from his eyes. “Readers, he says. The only reading the Bloodsnake Tribe does is when the crones back on the mountain poke through the guts of fools like you.”

  “Then I’m afraid we have nothing you’d be interested in. You’re welcome to what coin we’re carrying, but we have little of that.”

  The gray-skinned warrior clears his throat loudly and spits. “I bet we can find something good in your wagon. Maybe some gold or jewels hidden in the floorboards. You boys up for hacking it up?” The kvah behind him bellow and thrust their weapons into the air. “Oh, and we’ll be taking that girl, too. Damn ugly and no meat on her, but she don’t have no face in the dark.” Another rousing cheer from the others.

  “That’s not going to happen,” I mutter to Bell, coming to my feet. The leader of the kvah grins when he sees me rise. He swings the ax off his shoulder and the haft makes a meaty thwack when it strikes his other hand. “Looks like we got ourselves a scrap, boys!” he cries, striding forward.

  I’m just about to hop down from the wagon and draw my sword when I feel something sting my neck. “What –” I say, my hand flying up to find a thin and hard object jutting from just above my collarbone. I pull it out – it looks like a wooden dart, its sharpened tip coated with something viscous and green.

  My knees buckle. “Oh, thit,” I slur as I topple over, and the darkness rushes in to swallow the day.

  “Talin, wake up!”

  The words, spoken with a desperate urgency, reach down into the suffocating darkness that envelops me. Feeling slowly creeps back into my body as the world behind my eyelids lightens: soreness in my legs and arms, thirst and hunger. My arms are bound behind my back with something that cuts into my wrists. I’m kneeling on a forest floor: pine needles, rocks and dirt press against my legs.

  “Talin!”

  I open my eyes. Around me soar the thick trunks of ancient trees, their bark scarred with lichen. Late afternoon light, heavy and golden, trickles between the branches and illuminates a large glade that looks to have recently been cleared. The fresh stumps of smaller trees emerge from the forest loam, and piles of brush have been pushed to the edges of the open space. Several crude hide tents decorated with jagged red brush strokes have been erected around a pile of moss-slicked rocks, upon which crouches an obscenely fat kvah dressed only in a loincloth and a necklace of interlocking bones. One of the kvah’s tusks has been broken off, and the other curves back so far it nearly pokes his forehead. Around the stones mill more of the kvah, including the one that had spoken on the road. Poz stands before the looming warlord, looking very small and frail. There’s also an iron-bound chest beside him, something I think I remember having glimpsed earlier inside the wagon.

  “Over here!”

  I glance sideways and see Bell. She’s also kneeling, her arms tied behind her back. Her raven-black hair is matted with leaves and dirt, and her eyes are wild. Somehow her delicate spectacles are still intact.

  “Are you all right?” she whispers.

  I nod jerkily. “Yes. What happened?”

  “Poison. There were more hidden in the woods, and one shot you with a dart tipped with something that knocked you out. I was afraid you were dead.”

  I shake my head, trying to clear the last lingering remnants of the oblivion I’d just emerged from. “Not dead, but I feel terrible. What’s going on?”

  “The kvah are asking about the glitter –”

  “The glitter?”

  We both jump as a crack echoes through the clearing. The massive kvah lounging on the rocks has slapped his bulging belly with his hand.

  “You want to go in my stomach, pinkling?” he growls down at Poz. Even from across the clearing I can see that the old man is trembling.

  “No, certainly not!”

  “Then why,” the kvah drawls, leaning forward, “do you not answer my question?” He shakes the bones draped around his fat neck, and the rattling spurs the other kvah into a fit of hooting and hollering.

  “Because the glitter is dangerous! You could kill us all –”

  “Tell me, or I eat the girl right here, right now, in front of you. While she’s still squirming.”

  Poz casts a terrified glance over his shoulder at both of us. He looks like he’s about to collapse from fright.

  “Papa!” Bell cries, and the crowd of kvah roar with laughter.

  “No! I’ll . . . I’ll tell you.” Poz’s shoulders slump as he talks. “The glitter is valuable, from deep within the Chemerik Desert. Just a tiny bit of it touched to flame will cause a great explosion. The black sand pyromancers of the oasis cities can manipulate the glitter so that it burns almost eternally, rather than consuming itself in a violent conflagration.”

  The scarred kvah scowls and glances up at the crouching warlord. “Conflagration, boss?”

  “Big fire,” the bone-draped kvah replies, his slitted black eyes boring down on the shaking scientist.

  “Yes! I’ve learned much about how to control the glitter, but in the hands of the ignorant –”

  The kvah warlord raises his massive gray hand and considers his talons. Then he regards the old man with an arched brow.

  “Not that you are ignorant,” Poz stammers, “just, uh, unfamiliar with schooling in the traditional sense . . . not booksmart, maybe I should say, but certainly wise in the ways of the world –”

  “Open it, pinkling.”

  Poz swallows away any further babbling and crouches beside the chest. “Yes, sir,” he says, and then inserts a key into a lock, gingerly easing open the lid. The kvah clustered about draw back, as if made nervous by the scientist’s stories, and then lean forward when nothing immediately happens.

  “Show me what it can do,” the kvah warlord says.

  “Flame. I need flame.”

  The giant kvah gestures with a clawed finger and one of the warriors steps forward. “Start the night’s fire,” the warlord growls. “If this shit isn’t very impressive we can begin roasting these pinklings early.”

  More laughter from the gathered kvah as the warrior bends to kindle a flame among a pile of sticks. After a few strikes of flint on rock a spark catches and the first tentative tongues of fire taste the air.

  The kvah warlord spreads his arms wide, as if inviting Poz to begin his demonstration.

  The scientist steps closer to the open chest and reaches inside. When he straightens, I can’t see what he’s taken – whatever it is, it’s so small that it’s pinched between his fingers. Slowly and deliberately he approaches the small fire, keeping his other hand beneath the one holding the specks of glitter.

  The kvah warlord watches all this with narrowed eyes, stroking his overlapping chins.

  “Talin,” Bell hisses, and I glance over at her. All of the kvah are rapt while watching Poz creep towards the flame. I have to admit I’m a bit curious what will happen when he tosses the stuff into the fire.

  “Talin, they didn’t search my dress. I have a jugari flenser in one of my pockets.”

  “A what?”

  “Doesn’t matter. It should be sharp enough to cut through these ropes. Grab it while these brutes are distracted.”

  I scoot closer to Bell, my back to her, and stretch out my arms. Bell grunts as she leans forward, and my
fingers brush cloth.

  “A little lower,” she manages, apparently uncomfortable from whatever contortion she has to do for me to reach inside her pockets.

  My fingers slip between folds of fabric and she whispers something that sounds triumphant.

  There’s all sorts of stuff in here, a surprising amount. Something soft and squishy, something sticky and prickly, something hard and sharp –

  My fingers close around the handle of this bladed object just as Poz sprinkles whatever he was pinching over the flame and scrambles backwards.

  For a moment, nothing. I think I can see little golden motes drifting down through the early evening light, but that might be my imagination.

  “Quickly,” Bell says through gritted teeth.

  I pull the flenser out of her pocket just as the clearing explodes. A pillar of purple flame erupts from the small fire, far larger than should be possible, swelling into a roiling fireball. The force of the explosion sends several of the closest kvah tumbling to the ground, and the rest give a collective shout of surprise. Luckily there aren’t any branches above, because they certainly would have been enveloped by the blaze.

  As the flames dissipate, the kvahs’ attention turns to one of the younger warriors who had been standing a bit too close to the fire. He’s rolling around on the ground squealing like a pig, beating at the flames that have enveloped his spiky mohawk.

  The awed silence that followed the initial cries of surprise is now broken by raucous laughter as the kvah watch their unfortunate comrade. He’s screeching, flailing helplessly at his burning head.

  I slip the blade between the cords binding my wrists and they part with surprising ease. I’m on my feet a moment later, lunging towards the closest kvah, who is still chuckling and pointing at the spectacle of his burning friend. He’s just starting to turn in my direction when I bury Bell’s flenser – which looks like a tiny, white metal sickle – in his neck and slice it across his vocal cords. He collapses, scrabbling at his ravaged throat and making a horrible gurgling sound. A few of the kvah twist around, their attention drawn by the noise, and then they give cries of alarm as they reach for their weapons. My gaze flickers over them, searching.