by Tim Lebbon
Pool was a warren of streets, squares, and courtyards. Many of them were scattered with detritus from the decaying buildings—rotten window shutters, the glint of colored glass, chimney pots and clay bricks crumbled by decades of frost and sun—and here and there they found the bones of dead things. Most of the bones were animal, the cause of their demise always hidden. Some were human.
“Bones,” Rufus said, and the sight of a fleshless skull seemed to terrify him. Penler and Peer calmed him, guiding him past, and Peer saw the ragged hole smashed into the skull by whatever weapon had killed its owner.
Around the next corner, bathed in sunlight and the melodious sound of red-finch song, they saw their first phantom.
It was a young woman, so faint that Peer could see right through her. She wore the formal silk attire favored by Skulkians before the plague, and she was kneeling by the side of the path, looking down at the ground. She reached with translucent hands and touched something, then sat back again and considered what she had done. She repeated the action, straightened once more, and never once did she appear to see them. Most phantoms did not.
Rufus caught his breath and backed up a step, but Peer stood fast, holding on to his hips and feeling the shiver going through him. “Beautiful,” he breathed. It was a strange reaction to seeing a ghost.
“She won’t harm us,” Penler said. Rufus seemed unable to tear his eyes away from the young woman and her continuing attempt to arrange something none of them could see. The ground beneath her fingers bore only dust, and her fingers left no trails. “There’ll be more, but phantoms won’t give us away.”
They walked by the hollow girl, leaving her to her past. Rufus kept glancing back until they turned a corner and continued across a small square. Peer tried to reassure him with a smile, but he did not meet her eyes.
There were several more phantoms, some obvious, some little more than blurs on the air. Sometimes all three of them saw, and once it was only Peer who seemed able to make out a tall man sitting in a broken chair in the doorway of an ancient home. She thought he nodded at her, but his head rose and fell as he slept. How long ago? she wondered. He was even older than he looked.
I will see Gorham, she thought, the idea hitting her suddenly and hard. If he’s not dead. If the Marcellans didn’t hunt him down after taking me. The excitement was tempered by caution; she could not afford to hope for too much. But the idea of meeting her lost love again was thrilling, and she tried to ignore the three years that had separated them.
Three years, and an escape from Skulk yet to be made.
They left Pool and started climbing a steep hill toward the border with Course Canton. There were few people here, as proximity to the border served only to remind those living in Skulk that they resided in a prison. Those people they did encounter seemed little more than phantoms themselves, and they rushed to hide away. These were the outcasts from the outcasts, those who could not accept Skulk as a place to live and who hovered at the border, as if one day they might go back.
But no one sent to Skulk ever returned. It had been a long time since Peer had been here, and she’d forgotten just how heavily guarded the border was.
They called them the Levels. Once, before the plague, the dividing line between Skulk and Course Cantons had been difficult to distinguish. A street here, a square there, the banks of the Southern Reservoir, perhaps the edge of a park or the center line of a road. After the salt plague, there’d been a need to mark the border permanently. And so the razing had begun. In history books, the transcribers had gone to some effort to describe the methods used and the caution taken to prevent injury or worse to those innocents caught up in the chaos. In reality, the Marcellans had ordered the razing to be completed within two days. In such a short time, with so many fires set, ruin wagons dispatched, and buildings marked for destruction, the suffering of innocents was inevitable.
A fifteen-mile-long strip of land from southwest to southeast Echo City had been flattened of everything that stood or grew upon it. The Levels followed the old borders, up to a mile wide in some places, while here and there they were only a few hundred feet, one side still visible from the other. Following the razing and burning, almost two hundred watchtowers had been constructed along the northern edge of the Levels. For the next few years these were manned by Scarlet Blades, but as the public slowly forgot the plague and its consequences—or, if not forgot, at least put them to one side while they continued with their lives, content that the Marcellans had saved Echo City from its gravest, darkest hour—the Blades announced themselves as too important to spend their time on guard duties. A new branch of the Marcellans’ army was therefore created. The Border Spites—brutal and barely trained—were employed from all levels of Echoian society, the only requirements being that they were strong, able to fight, and willing to kill if the need arose.
The need frequently did. Even since Peer had been in Skulk, she had heard of almost a hundred attempted escapes. They all ended the same way, and the rotting corpses were left across the Levels as warnings.
Facing the Levels, hidden in the shadow of a tall house, Peer could see three watchtowers. A gentle drift of smoke tailed from one of them as the Border Spites cooked their lunch. Between them and her were the sad, fire-blackened ruins.
“This is where we say goodbye,” Penler said. He sighed heavily, staring anywhere but at Peer.
“You could still come,” she said.
“No, I’ll slow you.”
She tapped her hip, aching a little after their long walk. “I’m not as fast as I was, you know.”
“But I did a good job on that.” He looked at her at last, and she saw tears in his eyes. Tears, and something else: regret.
And she wondered suddenly how she had been so fucking stupid all this time. Old man, she sometimes jokingly called him, but it was how she perceived him. Just what had he thought of those words coming from the woman he loved? She could never know. Even if Rufus had not come along, it was far too late, because they had become such good friends.
“I’ll miss you,” he said.
What do I say? She hugged him tight, confused, and angry at herself for being so selfish that she had never seen.
Penler held her. The three of them stood in silence, and Peer felt the pressure of that silence weighing on her. He’s waiting for me to say something. But she did not know what to say. I’m sorry just wouldn’t do, and time was passing.
“You need to give me an hour,” he said, pulling away from her and staring back across the Levels.
“When will we know it’s time to go?”
“You’ll know.” He’d strengthened now, looking forward, bringing himself back to what needed doing to get Peer and Rufus away. Out of his life forever.
“Penler …” she said.
He smiled softly. “You’ll do fine.”
“No, I don’t mean … I wanted to say …” But she’d been blind all this time, and opening her eyes at the end would be pointless.
“Just remember me,” Penler said.
“I will see you again,” she replied.
His smile dropped, but only slightly. They both realized the likelihood of that.
Penler gave Rufus a one-armed hug before he went, then weaved his way back along the narrow street and disappeared into the blackened heart of a ruined temple. As well as letting go of Peer, he was saying goodbye to this remarkable visitor from the desert.
“Friends,” Rufus said, looking after Penler.
“Yes, we are,” Peer said. A sense of loss hit her in the gut, and she sat down heavily against the wall. They had a while to wait. And for her last hour in Skulk Canton, Peer reflected upon how self-obsessed she had been.
The previous day’s rains had turned the Levels to muck. Peer could see the black pools from where they waited, and she knew that the crossing would not be easy. The Levels were not actually level at all; the destruction a century before had been rushed, and here and there some remains still stood. Walls we
re piled with debris, and the dark pits of exposed basements led down to older Echoes. She hoped that whatever Penler planned, he gave them long enough.
Each of the three watchtowers she could see was manned. The guards in one were still cooking, and distant laughter came her way. In the second tower there had been movement as several Border Spites changed watch, and from the third she’d seen a guard pissing over the side.
“You’d better be who we think you are,” she said mildly.
Rufus still wore that lost expression.
“You remember nothing from out there?” she asked.
“Bones,” he said. “Sand. Dead desert.” He looked down at his hands, twisted in his lap.
“And nothing from before?”
Rufus shook his head. “Maybe … there is nothing.”
“No,” Peer said. “I don’t believe that. I can’t. Do you feel sick, weak? No, you’re fine. You’re good. You’re getting better! So there’s something about you …”
Rufus looked at her and glanced away again, perhaps not understanding. He stared across the Levels at the beginnings of Course Canton beyond. The buildings were low and stark, most of them abandoned this close to Skulk, but they still carried a heavy significance. Over there was freedom and choice. Over here was imprisonment and necessity. The Levels were where everything changed.
“You told me I’m not her. So who are you looking for?”
“I don’t know,” he said, perhaps too sharply. And the first explosion came from the east.
Rufus jumped, scrambling to his feet, but Peer crawled across the debris-strewn alley and held him down. He was breathing hard and fast, but she held his jaw with one hand and turned his face until he was looking right at her. His eyes are so green, she thought, and she shook her head, shushing him as the noise echoed across the Levels.
When Peer was six, there had been a series of anonymous attacks on Mino Mont’s water refineries. The authorities at the time had blamed them on the Dragarians, though there had been no such instances before or since, and the attacks had soon ended. What she remembered most was not the panic that had spread quickly through Mino Mont for those few days one summer—fear that if the refineries were destroyed, then the Northern and Eastern Reservoirs would quickly dry up—but the sounds of those few explosions. She had never heard anything like them before or since—until now.
Crawling to the mouth of the alley, she looked east and saw several plumes of smoke about a mile away. They did not seem to be rooted to the ground but floated on the breeze.
Three more explosions came, bursting in the air like rapidly blooming roses, spewing sparks followed by thin limbs of smoke. The colors were bright and varied, and each explosion flowered and spread differently. She had seen skyfires before many times, during street parties to celebrate an important Marcellan’s birthday or to mark the execution of another Pretender. But they were always a weak, sputtering affair. Never anything like this. These filled the sky.
“What?” Rufus said behind her. He’d crawled up close, and now he clung on to the leg of her trousers, shaking.
“Penler,” Peer said. “Full of surprises.”
She looked across the Levels at the three guard towers. Two of them were abuzz with activity as Border Spites climbed or slid down the rope ladders splayed around their legs. Atop the third tower—the farthest to the west—she could see three guards shielding their eyes as they watched the skyfires.
Go, she thought. Relieve your boredom. See what’s happening.
“We’ll give it a few moments,” she said. “Then we go.” Some of the guards started along the northern boundary of the Levels, the sun glinting from their weapons. This is madness, she thought, but she shoved that idea aside. Penler was doing this for her, and if he’d thought there was a chance of her being caught, he’d have suggested otherwise.
It was up to her to make sure his trust was not mislaid.
“Follow me,” she said, turning to make sure Rufus understood. He nodded. “Stay close behind me. Stay low.” She indicated what she meant with her hand. He nodded again. He understands more than he says, or can say. But that was another mystery to unravel later. One breath at a time, as her poor dead mother used to say. Peer took in a deep breath and left the cover of the buildings.
There were several heavy coughs to the east, and Peer saw smoke trails lifting objects high above the Levels. Upon exploding, they splashed a palette of colors across the sky, and the falling flames twisted around one another like dancing silk snakes. They were unlike any skyfires she had ever seen or heard of before. The sparks did not extinguish but kept spitting and dancing in the air, each one seemingly in concert with those around it. Shapes were formed and dispersed again, as if teasing—fighting rockzards, a diving rathawk plucking its prey from the air, wisps swooping toward and around one another without ever actually touching. For a second she stood amazed, before realizing that this display was not meant for her.
There was more movement way across the Levels, as guards streamed along the border.
Keeping low, Peer headed across, with Rufus following. She had been right about the rains—her boots quickly sank in thick mud. She felt it oozing over the boots’ lips and touching her shins, her ankles, and she imagined it as the dust of history. So much was mixed up in this wet, rancid stew. The ruins of whole districts, the pulverized remains of neighborhoods where people had once lived, loved, and died on their own terms.
She heard Rufus behind her, his own boots sucking at the muck as he walked.
Of the three towers in sight, she aimed for the one in the middle. She’d seen the guards abandon that one, and though there were still Border Spites manning the tower to their left, she hoped they would be able to slip past unseen. Keep them firing, she thought, hoping that Penler had a long supply of whatever he was using. Hardly magic, but it was close enough.
They passed tumbled walls, where weeds had grown out of the dust and smothered a building’s remains. Peer saw movement among the plants and kept her distance, in case they were biting or stinging things.
Penler’s skyfires continued to dance. She stole occasional glances their way, awed and thankful. He’s not like us, a woman had once told Peer about Penler, soon after she’d arrived in Skulk. They were drinking together in a tavern, watching the old man buying a fresh bottle of wine. He’s got something about him. Peer had smiled at the time, not sure what the woman meant, and over the next couple of years she had mostly forgotten those words. But now the woman’s voice rang back to her. It was how the most superstitious among them described someone who dipped into what were considered the darkest of arts.
Halfway across the Levels, she squatted behind a mound of weed-choked rubble, and Rufus did the same. He was following quietly and calmly, keeping low, and she wondered how terrified he must be.
“A rest,” she said, rubbing her aching hip. Rufus nodded. She peered around the mound, and now that the other side of the Levels was close, she could scan it for movement. There was nothing. Gray buildings faced them, most of them low but a few consisting of several stories. The architecture here was sparse and functional, but the buildings all contained the familiar arched windows of old Course design. There could be anyone watching from behind those, Peer thought, but that way lay defeat. If she became overcautious, they’d never move again.
She was still quite certain that two of the towers were deserted, but she was no longer sure about the third. She’d seen no movement there for a while. It could be that the Border Spites had gone to witness the fantastical skyfires after all, or maybe they were hunkered down even now, scrutinizing the Levels for the movement one of them swore he’d just seen. If that was the case, they’d do their best not to be seen themselves.
Peer’s heart raced, blood thumping in her ears. She’d heard stories about what the guards did to anyone caught trying to flee Skulk. She stretched her right arm, wincing as the air shards twisted against flesh, muscle, and bone. At least her hip was not too pain
ful. Penler had been right; he’d done a good job with that.
“Follow me,” she said, and without looking back she started again for the other side.
It did not take long but felt like forever. Three years before, Peer had been forced to watch as a Marcellan torturer shoved a selection of air shards through her arm, and the eyes she felt upon her now hurt almost as much. Whether they were real or imaginary she did not know, but that mattered little.
Panting, sweating, her heart racing at the certainty that they would be caught, she pressed up against the side of a building in Course Canton. Three years, she thought, but the stone beneath her skin felt no different.
The last of Penler’s skyfires was fading as it floated slowly to the ground. Crimson sparks turned to a deep, rich blue, landing across the Levels and remaining lit for a while. Blue was Peer’s favorite color. Penler knew that.
Her breathing slowing, Peer spent a moment looking back across at Skulk. She felt a curious sense of loss. Among the true criminals over there were wonderful people, whose imaginations and intellects had steered them to beliefs that resulted in banishment. She had been herself in Skulk. Now, back in Echo City, deception was to rule her life.
She nodded to Rufus, smiled, and led the way cautiously into a wide, empty street. And it was only as she began to believe they had escaped that they were caught.
The stupid thing was, she smelled the piss from thirty steps away. An hour earlier, she would have known what that meant and hidden. But her body could take only so much tension, and her sense of caution had given way to a sloppy belief in their good fortune.
We make it back, she thought, and the first thing I smell is chickpig piss. But it was not a chickpig pissing, and as the Border Spite stepped from a doorway farther along the street, still pulling up her trousers, Peer reached for her sword.
She had never killed or stabbed anyone in her life. The nearest she’d come to a fight had been with a drunken fat man, a year after arriving in Skulk, when he’d stumbled into her as she sat on the city wall. He’d drawn a sword and she’d pulled her knife, but he dropped his blade and started laughing before vomiting on her shoes. Leaving him in his own puke, trailing the stink behind her as she walked home, she’d wondered what the outcome would have been had he been not quite so drunk.