Etherwalker

by Cameron Dayton

  At least I wouldn’t be feeling these bruises! It’s a good thing I’m covered in grave-wrappings—my arms look like they’ve been through a wool carder.

  Enoch smiled in spite of his sore limbs. The nightly bouts had been a surprising remedy for his sorrow. Not curing, but bridling his grief. As he moved and spun and cut through the air, Enoch could feel the heartache softening in his chest, flowing along his arms and out along the flashing edges of the derech and the iskeyar. The sadness was still there, but it didn’t rule him.

  It wasn’t the exercise alone. Training with Rictus was very different than training with Master Gershom. Laughter in place of stern command. Clever suggestions instead of orders. And the specter was good. Surprisingly, delightfully good. What Rictus lacked in quickness and agility, he supplemented with an amazing reach and brilliant swordplay. He focused on pressing the attack, often leaving himself wide open as he sent a whistling volante across Enoch’s chest. The frenzy with which Rictus pressed the attack was unnerving, and Enoch could see how even the most seasoned warrior might panic under such a flurry of blows.

  But Enoch wasn’t a seasoned warrior, just a quick student with a talent for seeing through patterns. After two close losses to the specter’s tireless blade, he concluded that if he could just keep his focus enough to step through the volante with a cabra breve, he would be able to riposte under the specter’s extended arm and end the bout.

  If he closed his eyes, he could remember everything about that duel, the third bout of that night; how he’d focused on holding off the onslaught of flying attacks, waiting for Rictus to pivot back on his left foot in preparation for the sweeping horizontal advance. The longsword had come rushing towards him, and this time Enoch had stepped into the arc, leaning backwards and spinning on his heels so that Rictus’s elbow passed inches from his face. It had been a simple matter of extending his right arm as he completed the turn. Rictus laughed and lowered his blade. Enoch’s derech was lodged tightly between his third and fourth rib.

  “Well that’s an impressive little piece of ballet. I tell you what—I’ll give you this one.”

  Enoch was surprised.

  “You’ll give it to me? My blade is still stuck in your chest! You’re dead!”

  “No, no, no. No, sir. First of all, I was dead before you met me. Second, that sword would be a real worry for me if I actually had a lung there that you could open, but I don’t. The fact that I can stand here discussing the merits of said fatal blow should be evidence enough of that.”

  Here he waved off Enoch’s sputtering protests with a bony hand. Enoch remembered the odd feeling of anger at how unfair it had seemed. Master Gershom would have complimented him on the flourish. But what Rictus had said next still burned in his ears:

  “Listen, Enoch. The real issue here is that you treated this duel as a game between equals. You saw my top-heavy offense as a flaw rather than a stratagem.

  “Tell me, kid, what would you do now that your longest blade is lodged in between my ribs?” Here Rictus had spun away, whipping the hilt out of Enoch’s hand and bringing the edge of his own longsword under the boy’s jaw. “I’ve just halved your reach and brought you within the radius of my forté. More men have died with their steel in my chest then you can count.

  “You are good at moving to your opponent’s weaknesses, Enoch. The real trick is adapting to their strengths.”

  Enoch had been thinking about this every night since then. His duels with Master Gershom had always been structured and clinical. Wooden blades, proper counters, rules of engagement and measured ash-marks. The even-tempered study of angle verses force. He had never felt this heat, this passion in his training. It was new, and he liked it.

  Enoch looked over at his companion. The specter had pulled his hood up again and resumed walking towards the city. Enoch hurried up behind him.

  “Rictus, do people live all the way up at the top of the city—up there among the clouds?”

  “No—nobody lives at the top. The middle levels were destroyed years ago, leaving nothing but a tangled skeleton of girders. You’d have to be a regular monkey-man to get through that mess up to the top—that or an angel. ‘Course, if you were one of the feathered folk, you’d probably be more worried about your useless pecker! Hoo!” At this he slapped a bony knee and guffawed.

  Enoch fanned away the resultant cloud of dust. He never found any of Rictus’s jokes even mildly humorous, but he tried to appreciate the sentiment.

  Squinting his eyes, Enoch could see that the dingy metallic walls of the tower only extended halfway up its length before turning into a patchy tracery of jumbled bars which, for all their delicate appearance, continued firmly up into the clouds for at least a mile above the base. Rictus spoke more to himself as the towering city grew nearer, something Enoch found significantly more useful than his jokes.

  “Can’t believe she’s still standing after so many centuries,” he muttered, and Enoch wondered if it was respect he heard in that dry voice. “We built to last back then, that’s for sure. You know, it wasn’t intended to be a tower.”

  His voice was soft and distant, ill-suited on the grinning specter.

  “What was it meant to be?” asked Enoch, curious at what could change his companion’s demeanor so.

  “A ship, kid. It was the first pieces of a ship which could carry people . . .” Here he swept his shrouded arm across the night sky. “Out. Out there.”

  Enoch didn’t understand.

  “How could something so big ever even get off the ground?”

  “Ha—well that wasn’t even all of it. The tower you see was just the core of the first rocket. See, we were building the biggest parts down here, and then launching them into that cozy space between the earth and the moon. Then we were going to stitch them all together and set sail.

  “This was going to be our chance, our first good trip outta the old neighborhood, to spread a little homo sapiens around, you know? We’d finally found some vacancies out there, some real nice spots with all the amenities. For a while, it looked like we were going to break free from the history and the grudges and all of that dusty old badness. Finally had a chance to pull up our roots and get some real breathing room.”

  Rictus was staring at the sky. His jaw moved slowly up and down, and Enoch couldn’t tell if he was trying to laugh, or trying to whistle, or trying to cry. A bony hand moved up to point at the tower and then went back to the metal box on his chest. Tap, tap, tap.

  “But she never left the ground.”

  “Why?”

  “C’mon—don’t tell me that you haven’t heard of the Schism! The big kaboom? When the world decided that two heads were better than one?”

  “Oh, I’ve read of the Schism. The Great War in Heaven.”

  “Yeah, sure. Whatever they’re calling it these days. Pretty soon there was no one left who knew how to fly the Ark, or that cared to.”

  “The Ark?”

  “That is her name. Was her name. She was the last one built. Our last shot.”

  Rictus stopped talking. It was uncharacteristic, but Enoch didn’t mind. He had plenty to think of already. And to be honest, he found it kind of nice to have some quiet.

  * * * *

  The traffic on the road had slowly become dense as smaller side trails converged from all directions. Enoch found himself in a constant state of open-mouthed awe as a kaleidoscopic parade of people, creatures, and vehicles shuffled past them.

  A caravan of Akkadian traders had passed by earlier riding a short-haired variety of muridon which seemed much taller and sleeker than the ones he had seen before. Their wagons smelled of spices, leathers, and pungent oils. A young girl sitting in the back of the rearmost cart had sung a lilting song in a tongue Enoch didn’t recognize. In the yellow lamplight, her hair shone a warm cinnamon color, which he stared at mesmerized—until he noticed that she was looking at him curiously. He had stumbled over the length of his own shroud and pretended to be watching a bug on the road.
The girl’s sweet laughter faded into the dust with the rest of the caravan.

  A procession of performers from Axum soon followed, tattooed in shifting colors. They spun past like a flock of flowers in a windstorm. Enoch thought he could feel his eyes smarting from the wild chaos of hues.

  Yet even this was forgotten as a raucous croak startled Enoch from the road. A trio of sallow-faced young men rode by on the back of what appeared to be a giant, scaly fowl.

  “Swampmen from Garron,” whispered Rictus in reply to his unspoken question. “They live in the boiling marshlands north of here.”

  Enoch had heard of Lodoroi—the Swampmen. They dealt in exotic breeds captured and propagated from the plagued Garronian wastes. It was said that they had made a pact with the Serpent in ages past, for the changeling sickness of that region never affected them. In the darkness, Enoch could see various cages and sacks tied to the back of their steed, some of which were empty and others which writhed with ersatz life.

  The city walls came into view just as dawn broke over the eastern hills, which now crouched tawny and low like a pride of desert cats. Above the dirty stonework of the walls, a bright confusion of spires, minarets, and domes caught the morning light. While nowhere near as imposing as the impossible height of the tower, they had a magic all their own.

  “That’s Babel’s undertown,” replied Rictus, squinting uncomfortably. He nodded up. “Only the very rich are allowed to live inside the tower. The King himself occupies the top thirty floors,” here he pointed to a bulging section of the tower-which-was-almost-a-ship.

  “Rumor has it that Nyraud keeps rare and dangerous beasts up there, imported prey which he hunts at his pleasure. And there are some who say that good ole King Nyraud has a few trophies from the two-footed variety, if you know what I mean.”

  Enoch nodded slowly, not quite sure he did. Rictus continued.

  “But things in the undertown can be even deadlier. Babel was once a lovely city, but times aren’t like they used to be. Stay close to me and don’t look anyone in the eye.”

  Enoch grew wary as they neared the guards at the mouth of the gates. There were half a dozen of them lounging around the entrance and inspecting merchandise before it entered the city walls.

  I’ve never had to hide myself like this before. I hope I don’t look suspicious.

  Two of the guards were having some fun with the Swampmen. The guards, obviously bored, were laughing and poking their clubs through the merchant’s cages. The Swampmen sat silently on their mounts waiting to enter, apparently either unconcerned or accustomed to the abuse that their stock received at the gates.

  From the back of one cage came a furious hiss, and the guards again erupted into laughter. Further prodding produced more noise, and soon the guards were slamming their clubs against the sides of the cage as the creature inside howled. Still the Swampmen sat motionless, the long muddy rolls of their hair obscuring any expression on their faces.

  Master Gershom’s words came to Enoch. Men are made for the Law of God . . .

  Enoch’s hands curled around the hilt of his iskeyar, and he resolutely walked over to confront the guards.

  “Enoch!” Rictus hissed.

  But Enoch had already marched up next to the scaly side of the Swampmen’s mount. He put his hound out to catch the thick forearm of one of the guards.

  Whatever noble sentiment Enoch was about to express was quickly forgotten as another guard grabbed him and knocked him back against the pack animal. The reed-woven rope holding the small cage, already loosened from the recent abuse, parted and the wicker cage fell to the ground. A lithe, shadowy figure writhed free of the bars and ran between the startled guard’s legs and through the gate before anyone could react. The guards paid no mind—now they had new sport.

  “Young cur!”

  “Nobody ever teach you respect, boy?”

  “Learn ‘im, Lev!”

  Enoch fumbled for his swords as the guards moved towards him, but the blades were twisted up and tangled with his shroud.

  Maybe this wasn’t the best time to make a stand.

  The descending club of the first guard was caught in a bony grip. As he turned with a roar, a fleshless death’s head leered at him from the depths of a lifted hood.

  “Leave him alone, Lev, or you’re next on my lisssst.”

  The guard staggered back into the arms of his cronies and bowled them over long enough for Rictus to grab Enoch up in a thin arm and in three massive strides, they were in the city. Behind them cries of “specter!” and “demon!” dwindled away under the muffled roar of humanity rumbling from the busy crowd. The guards were loud, but obviously too afraid to give chase.

  “That was a stupid thing to do!”

  The specters’ accusation was lost to Enoch amid the buzz of voices. That had been dangerous, but . . . he felt good about his courage at the gate. After so many days of feeling helpless, it had been wonderful to act upon the world and defend something that had seemed so defenseless. His cheek still ached where the guard had landed his blow, but he felt strangely peaceful.

  Chapter 9

  “You can take your shiny tek and ride it back to Tenocht, sir. I spent two years potty training Sal, and another teaching him the difference between a whiskey sour and a Rob Roy. I can deal with the fleas.”

  — Calvin Jie, Disgruntled Bartender

  The city was a spectacle.

  Everything seemed to be in motion. From the motley crowds of people to the vendors to the very buildings themselves—Enoch felt as though his eyes were going to vibrate out of his head trying to follow the surrounding motion.

  How could so many people live together in one place like this?

  A group of tall armored women stomped past, their shields decorated with red scales the size of dinner plates. From the other direction, Enoch noticed two men with pale white skin and black robes pushing a bulky object through the crowd. They leaned it into place against a nearby wall and then set to work bolting its chassis to the stone. Enoch thought he recognized that shape—

  It’s a Unit!

  The machine was taller and sturdier-looking than the one Enoch had grown up with, and the keypad seemed designed for various sizes and types of fingers. But it was definitely a Unit.

  Enoch looked down the length of the wall and noticed several other Units installed for public use. A few were occupied by merchants, but most stood alone.

  And Master Gershom had said that our Unit was a rare treasure. I wonder if he ever passed through Babel . . .

  Enoch’s thoughts were interrupted as a piece of rotten fruit flew through the air to splatter against the wall above the nearby Unit. The two pale men stood, nervously scanning the crowd for the source of the hostility.

  Enoch could sense tension in the air, noticed that several passers-by eyed the Unit with anger. Distrust. Fear.

  Rictus grabbed Enoch by the shoulder.

  “Let’s not stick around here, kid. People are still jumpy about the king’s attempt to modernize. This could get ugly.”

  One of the pale men turned and went back to work, while the other signaled for some nearby soldiers to approach. The soldiers had green and gold livery, and they pushed through the crowd with an air of official authority. Rictus squeezed his shoulder again.

  “Come on, Enoch.”

  But Enoch had something he wanted to do first. He had never had a chance to pause and use his new powers to look inside of a Unit before—the one back at Rewn’s Fork had gone and melted itself before Enoch ever got the chance to. And maybe he could see if these public machines could read his disc? Enoch paused—

  “No!”

  Rictus’s shout yanked him right out of the trance and attracted the stare of one of the pale men setting up the machine. Rictus pulled his face-wrap a little bit tighter and laughed.

  “No, you may not have any more of those sugar meats, son! Not until we have the livestock unloaded!” He turned Enoch swiftly by the shoulder and marched him in the ot
her direction. Enoch was confused.

  “I was just going to look inside the—”

  “I could tell what you were going to do, boy. You get that empty look on your face—what do you call it? The scary-carey?”

  “Ferrocara,” said Enoch impatiently.

  “Whatever. Just keep your brain out of the local Units. They are all networked together, and probably set to let off all sorts of noise if a Pensanden dips in.”

  Enoch supposed that he should probably trust Rictus in cases like this.

  Maybe . . . maybe later I can try and see. Just a dip into the Unit there. Nobody will know.

  Rictus was laughing, said something about never dreaming of having to baby-sit an etherwalker. Enoch didn’t care. Babel was incredible! He decided to let his mind rest and just take in the sights and sounds.

  Hawkers called out their various bargains in counter-rhythm to the whistle and bang of the machinists’ scrap shop. A slender, deer-eyed creature draped in butterfly silks danced to the pan flute and tambour, her short, dappled fur changing color as the music switched keys.

  To his left, Enoch saw a trio of tall winged men arguing over prices with a gnomish scrapmonger. The little man had complex goggles of metal and held a wrench almost as tall as he was. His customers were angry, but he seemed untroubled by their intimidating gestures. He shrugged and turned away from the trio, evoking a surrendering gesture from the tallest of them. The gnome turned and smiled—he had obviously just made a sale.

  A little guy who knows that he’s smarter than his opponents. I like him already.

  Above his head, cables strung from building to building like cobwebs. Craning his neck, Enoch could see a limber creature leaping along the cables effortlessly hundreds of feet above the ground.

  “It’s a gabbon,” Rictus said. “A word-ape. The rich families use them as messengers. The hairy little guys are perfect mimics, and they can repeat a message word-for-word even years after it has been given. With the constant power-outages, they are the most reliable form of communication in the city right now, but the king is trying to connect a faster form of electronic messaging.”