A Shroud of Night and Tears (Beyond the Wall Book 3)

by Lucas Bale

  No—there was still fear. But there was also a burning purpose. And he knew what he had to do.

  C H A P T E R 47

  WEAVER STEPPED out of the tavara that housed their small room and emerged into cool, fresh air that chilled the sweat on his skin. He strode quickly away, the pistol he’d carefully hidden in the wall now tucked in a coat pocket. He had hardly slept; most of the night had been accompanied by glances thrown towards the door. He wasn’t sure what he expected: whether he thought Peacekeepers sent by the Seneshal would burst through it, and the brilliant flash and roar of their heavy rifles would fill the room—or whether something quieter, more furtive, might take his life.

  Or Skoryk. Did he expect Skoryk to come back? Skoryk had not returned to the room, and Weaver understood perfectly why he had stayed away.

  Weaver kept the light on all night, because in the darkness all he could hear was the thump of the explosions, over and over again. They echoed around the room, suffocating him. His body had been stretched out on the cot, rigid with tension. He had been forced to change his clothes because so much sweat had seeped from his skin into the rough threads of the fabric. You should have gone back, a new voice in his head told him. You left people to die in the chaos you created. You should have gone back.

  He tried to tell himself that more would have died; that the failure of the operation would have led to the deaths of far more than any bomb could ever account for. He tried to make himself believe that, but even in the harsh light thrown from the bulbs above him, all he could see were the shadows of new ghosts.

  When eventually he did sleep, it was accompanied by vivid dreams dressed in blood and fire. He had awoken to find the room suddenly claustrophobic. Abruptly, without warning, he felt imprisoned by its tight walls and knew he had to get out.

  There had been no opportunity to eat since noon of the previous day, and he had grown light-headed. He wasn’t hungry—the thought of food made him nauseous—but he knew he should force himself to eat something. He had to be able to function, and the constant effort was drawing on him. His body was an empty shell now that the adrenaline had seeped away. And the search for the saboteurs, for him and Skoryk, would intensify now. They would not rely only on a propaganda war; the gloves would come off. A river of black would flood the city. He knew, somehow, he had to be alert. He had to escape.

  The conveyance swept into the lucent belt of the walkway, and he stepped onto it, seeking a random, circuitous route away from that small room. He scrutinised the faces of those around him, but they were only the faces of cowed, anxious citizens. He felt exposed, seated among them, fear dry in his own throat. At every stop, he watched those who left, and scrutinised again those who got on. He tried to ignore their voices, but he heard them nonetheless. All they could speak about in hushed whispers was the Conduit bombing. Of course, what did he expect? He sat now on a conveyance among people wondering if they too would soon lose their lives in another explosion. You should listen, he told himself. You deserve to hear what you’ve done.

  So he did. He listened to the trembling voices, edged with fear and tension, and while the words drifted over him almost uncomprehendingly, the emotion behind them was unmistakable.

  He should have seen it from that first moment in the room. He should have known from Skoryk’s attitude that the vengeance he sought for Jieshou, and for everything that had gone before it, had long since overwhelmed him. The plan had been so simple: derail the conveyance. Disruption, fear, very likely injuries, but no one killed. Peacekeepers were their targets, not citizens.

  Yet Skoryk did not see these people as citizens, regardless of their caste, regardless of how they were treated by the Magistratus. The chasm between the Core and the rest of the systems had widened so much that Skoryk saw them instead as collaborators.

  Weaver forced himself to stare out the window at the city above, but fire washed hypnotically over him and each tavara seemed to explode and crumble around him. The shrill screams of the dead and dying pealed in his ears. He shook his head, breathing heavily. He got to his feet, stumbling a little, and disembarked the conveyance with a small crowd, a stranger among them.

  He didn’t look back. As he walked, he focused on the walkway ahead and the galleries above him, but he saw nothing to alarm him. The air was quiet and still; the early morning had hardly begun. He was grateful for the its freshness. He reminded himself again that he should eat, that he was hungry and needed the energy. The theatre was not far.

  He was a hundred metres up, walking along a gallery between two tavara, when he first felt the floor tremble. There were only a few citizens up here; the curfew had only just finished. He turned, his chest tight but unsure why. The floor of the gallery trembled again, a little harder. But this time it didn’t stop.

  Only when the vibrations were joined by a muted howl did he understand what it was. He felt a hard lump in his throat and turned quickly. A gunship. There was rarely any patrol in this part of the city in the early morning. There was usually no need, unless… unless there were to be raids.

  He saw them then, his face pressed to the glass of the gallery. Two black gunships, one cruising along the walkway at each end. He found he could hardly breathe.

  The screens flickered to life, and the image he saw from the window—the same gunships, the same walkway, playing out right now before him—appeared on every single screen. A hard, hollow voice echoed along the gallery. Each word cut through him, burned him.

  ‘Citizens,’ it began. ‘Your safety is in danger. A campaign of violence by a group of craven insurgents threatens the security of this great city and its citizens. The blood of innocents is on their hands.’

  The images on the screens shifted, and Weaver saw the aftermath of the Conduit bomb. Citizens lying, bloodied and dying, amid the wreckage of conveyances that had been thrown from the tracks by the force of the explosions. The camera focused in on a single hand, clutching something that might have been jewellery, a pendant maybe. Then it pulled away to reveal a face that was begrimed and charred. Eyes open, staring. Empty and dead.

  ‘The perpetrators walk among you, free to continue their campaign of blood. They care nothing for you and the lives you have built with your hard work and honour. Your integrity. These are traitors to the rest of humanity. You owe them nothing.’

  The image shifted to a woman, lying amid the rubble, cradling the broken body of a child in her arms. A young girl, hair matted with dirt and cement, dress scorched and dark with blood, head canted horribly.

  ‘Every human life is sacred. We each owe our fealty to the Republic. Humanity depends on every one of us to do our duty. Do not let these recreants remain free. They must face the Quorum’s justice for these cowardly acts of murder and terrorism.’

  Weaver stared down at the walkway and saw the gunships touch down on either side of the steps that led down to the theatre. Peacekeepers jumped from open hatches, black armoured suits glistening in the rising sun. They kept their heavy rifles tucked into their shoulders, in front of them as they ran, descending the steps quickly, silently.

  ‘This morning, there will commence a series of arrests, rooting out those who harbour these terrorists. Stay in your domiciles. Do not venture out. Remain inside where you can be protected.’

  The windows of the tavara flashed white, but Weaver couldn’t hear the gunfire above the hollow roar of the gunships.

  ‘Your safety is our priority.’

  He saw a figure, a slender feminine form he vaguely recognised—someone he had eaten with—run up the steps and sprint away. Turrets on one of the gunships turned slowly, almost lazily.

  He pressed his hands against the glass as he watched, pushing the scream that threatened to escape his lips down deep into his stomach. He wanted to close his eyes, to shut out the truth, but he made himself watch. This was their doing, his and Skoryk’s—he knew that. These reprisals were for their attacks.

  The guns settled into their projected stance as she ran. She h
ad nearly reached the corner of the tavara when they opened fire, cutting her down, shredding her body. Her blood stood starkly against the pale polished grey of the walkway. A Peacekeeper approached her torn body, lifted the head and examined it, then let it fall and walked away.

  Weaver couldn’t see her face—she was too far away—but he didn’t need to. Her expression of terror as she ran wouldn’t leave his mind, no matter how much he tried to push it away.

  ‘Let us give thanks,’ the voice said finally.

  The screens faded to black. Weaver had to force himself to walk away, when all he wanted to do was run.

  He stood across from the tavara for a long time, watching. He told himself they couldn’t possibly know, unless Skoryk had been captured. Was that why he had not yet surfaced? There were no Peacekeepers patrolling the walkways or galleries. No recurring faces in the crowd. No one standing, waiting; no one watching, as he was.

  You can’t stand here forever. You need to know.

  He took the pistol from the small of his back and slid it into the pocket of his coat.

  He crossed the walkway, waiting as a conveyance slid along the Conduit tracks, then slipped through the entrance to the lobby of the tavara. He searched the faces around him, citizens coming and going. Eyes met his then glanced away. Were they looking at him? No. They’re just normal people. Stay calm.

  He looked up at the cameras, sweat building up behind his synthetic polymer mask. His throat itched, and he found he wasn’t breathing. He took in a breath and his chest felt tight.

  There was a conveyance up to the level on which the room was located; he stepped inside the glass tube. As the doors began to close, a citizen, a tall man in a hat, jumped inside, bumping heavily against him.

  ‘So sorry,’ he said quickly.

  Weaver’s hand tightened on the pistol in his pocket.

  ‘No problem,’ he replied.

  The man looked at him quickly as the conveyance shifted and began to rise. Weaver could smell the sweat on his skin. Is he nervous? Is that it? Why? His finger closed around the trigger.

  ‘Warm today,’ the man said as he selected the eighth level.

  ‘Unusual for this time of year,’ Weaver said. He licked his dry lips.

  ‘Which level?’ the man asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You didn’t select a level,’ the man said, not looking at him. ‘Which level do you want?’

  ‘Ten is fine.’

  The man reached out and pressed a finger to the number ten.

  The conveyance slowed as it reached the eighth level. The man turned to Weaver.

  ‘Good day to you then,’ he said. Weaver met his gaze and nodded.

  The man seemed to hesitate before he got out, but then he turned and walked along the gallery. The doors closed behind him, and Weaver pressed the button that read five.

  When he reached the fifth level and the doors opened, he glanced along the hallway, but there was no one to be seen. He walked up to the door and stood by it, listening. He shook his head. There was nothing.

  He leaned back and kicked through the door.

  It was empty.

  The weapons, the explosives, all the maps—everything was gone. If the Seneshal knew about the room, if Skoryk had told them, they would have been waiting for him. No, it was Skoryk who had emptied it. Weaver knew now; there could be no doubt. The Conduit bomb had been deliberate. The loss of civilian life had been Skoryk’s aim all along. Of course he cared nothing for these people; they were citizens, loyal to the Republic, or at least in fear of it and willing to accept the easier life in the Core that citizenry offered. They were not his people. To him, they were expendable, pawns in whatever terrible game he was playing. Damn you, Skoryk!

  Weaver searched the room. The cots and the shelves were still there, as they had left them, but nothing else. There was nothing left to salvage. You need to get out, he told himself. You may still have been burned.

  He knew he had to find Elias. He had always needed to make amends—for Jieshou, and now for this. It was what the operation had meant to Weaver. Rankin had known that and been able to manipulate his desires. Did that change anything?

  Atonement.

  That opportunity still existed. It was one he could not now waste.

  C H A P T E R 48

  ELIAS SAT at his desk as the early evening’s damask sun shed the last of its waning light over Theia. His hand fell to the ghost of a dull, throbbing pain in his side, and he felt a cold shudder in his spine. Each time he closed his eyes, he saw his father in that chair—the same chair he himself had sat in. He had no doubt about that now. They had tortured his father in that room, then subjected Elias to the very worst kind of persuasion they could devise. He had suffered his father’s very real agony. And he had felt not only the pain itself, but also the guilt. The guilt of knowing that the pain they had inflicted on his father—the person Elias cared for perhaps more than anyone else—was because of him.

  The puppeteer would wait no longer, that was clear now. Soon, Elias would need to choose a side.

  A knock came at his door.

  ‘Yes,’ he called, and the door opened. One of the houseboys stood there.

  ‘You’re wanted in the master’s library, sir.’

  Elias nodded and watched the boy depart. He looked at the blood-red sky once more, then took the conveyance to very top of the House. As the doors parted, he faintly heard Carsten and his master speaking in low tones. He approached the edge of the hall leading to his master’s study and waited for a moment, listening.

  ‘It’s alarming,’ Carsten was saying. ‘The wire suggests the loss of life arising from the Conduit incendiaries was down to the Caestor.’

  ‘How can we be sure?’

  ‘What does it matter?’ Carsten said. ‘Rankin was wrong to trust him.’

  ‘Who was the wire from?’

  ‘Skoryk. He claims the Caestor lied to him about his intent. He must have planned to plant the incendiaries that way all along. The Caestor used high-yield explosives without Skoryk’s agreement, then tried to kill him. Skoryk has been forced to leave Theia. Don’t you see? This proves the Caestor is still working for the Magistratus. The insurgency was intended to build on the work we had already done: to put citizens in fear and incite them to rebel. It was supposed to demonstrate that the Magistratus cared nothing for their safety. But the incident on the Conduit turns them against us. Children died in the explosions. Propaganda images are all over the channels. The man is attempting to undermine our organisation.’

  ‘You may be right.’

  ‘Of course I’m right. You should have listened to me.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘We find him. We expose him as an infiltrator. Try him publicly and give the citizens the justice they want. We blame the Magistratus for these attacks. We can use this to our advantage—show them precisely what the Magistratus is capable of. We use him to turn the tide of their combined opinion back to us.’

  ‘A sacrifice.’

  ‘It has the advantage of truth!’

  Elias made his way along the hall towards them. As he entered his master’s study, Carsten turned to him. Elias caught a flicker of distaste in his expression, but it was quickly replaced with a false smile.

  ‘Elias,’ the Consul said. ‘Have you had word from the Caestor?’

  ‘None,’ he replied truthfully. ‘He has not made contact for some time.’

  ‘Do you know where he is now?’

  Elias shook his head. ‘He was quite insistent about keeping a division between us. I attempted to follow him after I delivered the equipment he requested, but I couldn’t get close enough without alerting him to my presence.’

  ‘One of those underground theatres was the subject of a purge this morning. Is it possible the Caestor was there at the time?’

  ‘I doubt it. I don’t think he would be so foolish. He is clever; a survivor. Well trained. I think he will have found himself a place to h
ide and consider his options.’

  A light flashed on Elias’s module—a summons from one of the houseboys. He excused himself and found the boy waiting for him, as he always did, by his room. The boy handed him a single piece of paper folded to look like a tiny pink flower. Elias nodded to the boy, who left quickly without a word.

  The system Elias and Sarin Romanov had used relied on different colours of paper folded to look like either flowers or birds. They indicated, by their colour and shape, the location of a message left to be picked up. Elias preferred this system when dealing with Sarin. And in truth, he had grown fond of her intricate origami.

  He pulled on a coat and slipped away from the estate. Above him, charcoal clouds gathered. As always in his dealings with Sarin, he took the precautions of his praxis, searching for indications he was being followed and taking less obvious routes.

  He waited for almost an hour, observing the place where the message had been left, until he was satisfied that neither he nor the message were being watched. Rain began to fall as he retrieved the message and walked away.

  Had he known its contents, he might have read it more quickly, but it was his practice to palm it behind his module until he was somewhere he was certain he could not be observed. When he finally did open it, he was completely unprepared for what he saw there. The words shook him.

  I know where your father is.

  The rain fell more heavily now, and it brought with it a strange smell of pepper. Elias hurried through shimmering pools of colour that flickered on the wet stone, slipping often in his haste to reach her. He pushed through the press of people, almost recklessly, desperate to speak to her. Some might have turned to stare at him, perhaps even to remonstrate, but he hardly saw or heard them. Somewhere, distantly, he heard the whine of the Conduit and the bright glow of blue light as a conveyance pulled into a platform.