by J. C. Staudt
Blaylocke hesitated. “He is. But he’s telling the truth. We got the chips for that gravstone shipment that never paid out.”
“What do you need the Council for?”
“There’s some stuff that needs sorting out. Trust me, Oscar. Muller’s here to help.”
“Oh, it’s him? The guy who was visiting last year?”
“That’s him.”
Oscar pointed to Thorley. “What about that one?”
“He’s a friend,” I said. “And a finer tool than you’re ever likely to meet elsewhere.”
“Bringing two techsouls into the city at once,” Oscar said. “I swear, I’m going to get canned for this.”
“I’ll take the heat,” said Blaylocke. “It’s on me.”
Oscar adjusted his goggles. “If you say so.”
The watchmen breached the cloaking field with their hoverbikes to let us inside. It was a relief to finally be free of the biting wind and blowing dust, and I breathed Pyras’s low-altitude air with appreciation. Its pastures and terraces were no less green than I remembered them, its buildings no less pristine. Its people, however, looked worn and thin.
We parked our rented hoverbikes in the lot outside City Watch Headquarters. The people of Pyras were good at noticing outsiders. Several passersby turned to look as we dismounted and unmasked.
“If we hurry, we may catch Malwyn and DeGaffe at the Kingsholme before they leave for the night,” said Chaz.
“You all do what you want,” said Blaylocke. “I’m going home to my wife.”
“What about vouching for him?” Oscar asked.
“I do vouch for him,” said Blaylocke. “I’m still a City Watchman. If Malwyn and DeGaffe have a problem with him, they can get in touch. I’ll be at home.”
I thought about arguing with him, but I understood. “Say hi for me. We’ll meet back here at nightfall.”
Blaylocke threw me a look. “I’m not one of your crewmen, Muller. I appreciate what you’ve done to get me home, even though you were an asshole about it the whole time. I’ve done enough running around. I just want things to go back to normal.”
A dozen quips, insults, and retorts spun through my mind. None of them seemed fitting. All I kept coming back to was, “Have a nice life, Blaylocke. You don’t think I mean that… but I do.”
Blaylocke turned and sprinted down the street. I knew he wasn’t running away. He was running toward.
“How about you, Chaz? I remember you being quite taken with whatsername from Maclin. You got any loved ones here you need to see? Parents? Girlfriend? Boyfriend? Concubine?”
Chaz sighed. “It’s just me, Mull. But I am glad to be home.”
“You’re an important guy around here. Head Gadgeteer and Technotherapist and all that. How have they been getting by without you?”
“The larger concern is how they’ve been getting by without food.”
“That’s what we’re on our way to find out,” I said.
The Kingsholme had lost none of its majesty, a colossal edifice in ancient white limestone with brass and silver inlays. Had I known it housed the Council’s offices and conference rooms, I might’ve tried harder to meet the backstabbers before we left.
Chaz was beaming as he led us through the familiar entry hallway, lined with its floating pedestals holding artifacts of historical significance. I’d never paid much attention to them before, but I’d been places and seen things that made them stand out to me now. The first thing I noticed was that the pedestals were carved to match the pillars at the Regent’s palace. Whether that was intentional, I didn’t know. I also noticed, in the recesses along either side of the hall, a short row of canisters that looked like steel water bottles.
“What are those?” I asked.
“The deceased,” said Chaz. “Those who’ve gone before us have a special place in the Kingsholme.”
“Sorry I asked.”
Chaz turned right at the end of the hallway, a route I’d never been allowed on in all my escorted trips to and from the Kingsholme. After a series of turns and long hallways, we came to a door with a wall-mounted plaque that read:
The Honorable G. L. DeGaffe
Member, Pyras City Council
Chaz knocked.
“You sure the Councilor is okay with us barging in on him at the end of the day? We usually report to—”
The door opened. On the other side was a middle-aged blonde dressed in formal black robes. She raised her eyebrows when she saw us. “Can I help you?”
“That depends,” I said. “We need to talk to Councilor DeGaffe. Is he here?”
“I’m afraid not,” she said. “May I ask what this is regarding?”
“Important crap that’s none of your business,” I said. “Where can we find him?”
“Uh, Muller…”
“Quiet, Chaz. I’m trying to save this city, lady. If you’ll just tell me where he is, we’ll be on our way.”
She frowned. “Who are you, exactly?”
“The name’s Muller Jakes.”
“And this fellow?” She nodded at Thorley Colburn.
“My compatriot. I don’t have all day, sister. Are you going to tell me what I want to know, or do I have to ask nicely?”
“Muller…”
“Look, Chaz. I’ve worked too long too hard to waste my time on—”
“Please, come in.” The woman stepped aside.
“Finally,” I said, entering the room beyond. “I thought you said he wasn’t here.”
The room was warm, dark, and richly appointed. A fire glowed in the hearth, throwing shadows from a large desk, an armchair, and a wall of bookshelves. Sure enough, there was no Councilor DeGaffe in sight.
“Where is he?” I asked, turning to the woman.
She rounded the desk and draped herself across the armchair behind it. “It’s so nice to finally meet you, Muller. Councilor Malwyn and I have been anxiously awaiting your return for some time now.”
I blinked at her, and felt my throat tighten with embarrassment. “Oh, I’m… sorry. I—”
“As always, it’s good to see you, Chester.”
Chaz gave her an awkward bow. “I apologize for—”
“Where is Clint, I wonder?” she interrupted. “Has he fallen behind with the weight of all that gold?”
“No, Mrs. DeGaffe.”
“I’ve asked you to call me Gillian,” she said.
“Sorry… Gillian. Clint is…” Chaz turned to me, hoping I’d take over.
“We know Vilaris and Yingler are the same dude,” I said.
The other city watchmen murmured.
“Oh, sorry, guys. Spoiler alert. Anyway… Yingler was working for the Regency as an undercover agent.”
Gillian DeGaffe feigned surprise. “Really.”
I gave her a wry smirk. “Let’s not pretend you didn’t know that. You sabotaged the Secant’s Clarity. Either you hated my guts just by virtue of me being a techsoul… or you’d discovered Yingler was a double-agent. Now, you tell me… which was it?”
“Thank the heavens we kept such a close eye on him all those years,” DeGaffe said. “You did well to have survived the crash.”
“Yeah, well… it wasn’t so much a crash as a shoddily-executed rigging job. Any cross-eyed cabin boy could’ve seen it a mile away. Next time you need something sabotaged right, let me know.”
DeGaffe flashed a smile that faded just as quickly. “Where is Lafe now?”
“Where he belongs,” I said. “I’m going to give him to you, along with the money he stole. That part comes later. First, allow me to spin you the mournful tale of Mr. Alastair Gilfoyle. Some call him miserly, rapacious… even depraved. I say he’s misunderstood.”
DeGaffe sighed. “Go on.”
“Alastair Gilfoyle was a hard-working businessman, not too different from you and me. Gilfoyle had big dreams. Like fooling his investors into thinking he was running a successful mining operation. One day, Pyras’s trading liaison showed up on his door
step. Instead of notifying the authorities of an illicit gravstone dealer in town, Gilfoyle snapped up the offer granting him exclusive purchase rights to Pyras’s unprocessed gravstone. And so, Gilfoyle salvaged his failed gravstone venture the only way he knew how: by buying his product from someone else. Everyone was happy. Pyras was rich. Gilfoyle was rich. His investors were rich. Lafe Yingler was rich because he started charging extra and skimming a little off the top for himself.”
DeGaffe folded her arms and leaned back in her chair.
“Then I came along. I heard he was buying product under the table and couldn’t snitch to the Civs if someone took it from him. My attempt to rob Gilfoyle scared him so bad he picked up and ran at the first sign of trouble from his supplier, thereby severing Pyras’s income and jeopardizing the future of his business. He got proud; decided he’d start trying to mine some real gravstone on his own. Last time I spoke with him, that hadn’t exactly panned out.”
“When was that?” asked DeGaffe.
“A few days ago. He says if Pyras is interested in a new contract, so is he. Yingler’s out of the picture now. He was the problem. You know… with all the law-loving and money-confiscating, and the ‘making you think Gilfoyle had screwed you when it was really him’ stuff. I’d say that brings us up to date. I’ve got Yingler, Yingler’s money, and an open invitation for a new trade deal with Gilfoyle. Case closed. Gods, I’m so great.”
DeGaffe pursed her lips. “You’ve done better than we ever thought you could.”
“That’s because you thought I would fail,” I reminded her. “And also die. Speaking of ‘we,’ where’s this Malwyn fellow—or madam—who rules this city with you? Shouldn’t he or she be in on this conversation?”
“I suppose he should. Someone check down the hall, would you? Tell Councilor Malwyn I need to see him at once.”
So Malwyn is a man, I thought. Why couldn’t Chaz have taken me to his door first?
Oscar left the room and returned a few minutes later with a slender, balding man in formal black robes matching DeGaffe’s. He adjusted his eyeglasses when he saw Thorley and me standing there, then frowned at Councilor DeGaffe. “Forgive me for saying so, but these two strike me as blu—” he stopped himself. “You don’t appear to be citizens of Pyras. Yet here you stand with the long-lost Professor Wheatley. Hello, Chester. Am I right in thinking that my orders have been violated, Mr. Arnath?”
Oscar stammered. “Gareth Blaylocke said he vouches for them, sir.”
“He’s back then too, is he? Where, exactly?”
“He went home to his wife,” I said.
Malwyn turned his piercing gaze on me. “And you are?”
“Randolph,” DeGaffe said, “this is Muller Jakes and his friend… uh, I’m sorry. Your name was…”
“Thorley,” said Thorley.
Malwyn frowned. When I offered him my hand, he didn’t take it. “Well. As I live and breathe…”
“I do too,” I said. “Much to your surprise, I’m sure. Lafe Yingler is alive. I’ve had him detained.”
“Mr. Jakes has been rather successful in the errand we sent him on,” said DeGaffe.
“Despite your every effort to the contrary,” I added. “Yingler is a snake, and I hope you’ll deal with him accordingly once he’s in your custody.”
“Is he here?”
“He’s on my boat, along with the money he owes you.”
“Take us there.” Malwyn pointed at Oscar. “You. Call up a fresh unit. I want the City Watch taking part in this. The people of Pyras must see the Regency’s betrayal for themselves.”
“Uh, my boat isn’t in Pyras.”
Malwyn furrowed his brow. “Why not?”
“Well, for starters, it’s big. Also, it’s full of techsouls. But perhaps most importantly, it’s a streamboat. And you can’t bring a streamboat into a grav city, unless you never want to take off again.”
“Full of techsouls, you say. Regency sympathizers?”
“Why does that matter?”
“There are techsouls… and then there are Regency techsouls.”
“Oh, I hear you. Law-lovers are the worst. You don’t have to worry about that with my crew. They’re no Lafe Yinglers. Except Lafe, of course. No one’s going to go running to what’s left of the Regency and blab about your untaxed gravstone supply.”
Malwyn chuckled. “Is that what you think this is all about? The gravstone?”
I paused. “That’s what this has always been about. The gravstone is what this whole charade has been about from the beginning.”
“If only that were true,” Malwyn said. “If only the Regency were after our exports alone.”
I looked at Chaz, then DeGaffe, then Malwyn. “I’m sorry, but finding you a buyer for your gravstone and getting your money has been my mission from the start. I’ve done all of that. Vilaris and Blaylocke saved my life the day they plucked me out of the Churn. Not only that, they saved me from getting captured by the Civs and thrown in prison. I’ve done what I was supposed to do.”
“And for that, we are most grateful,” said DeGaffe.
“Then what’s this about? What else could the Regency possibly want from Pyras?”
“Why, the Kingsholme, of course,” said Malwyn. “The Regency wants to destroy the truth.”
9
“The truth about what?” I asked.
“The cataclysm that tore this world apart,” Malwyn said. “The one that created a new race. The Regency has long engendered a policy of lies and misinformation regarding these ancient events.”
“That’s their policy on everything.”
“Which is why there’s plenty you don’t know, Muller Jakes. Plenty.”
Gillian DeGaffe stood and came around her desk. “Perhaps it’s time we told you a story, Muller. A true story of what was, and what the Regency now wishes to erase from history.”
I folded my arms.
Malwyn looked at DeGaffe. “Are you sure this is right?”
Councilor DeGaffe eyed me. “True, Muller has a checkered past. But he succeeded in his task, and he’s come back. He’s shown us that he is a techsoul who can be trusted.”
“Whoa. Wait a minute,” I said. “I cannot be trusted. I know I have one of those friendly faces and I can pour on a heavy dose of charm when I have to, but don’t think for a second that I’m an honest man.”
“We don’t,” said DeGaffe. “Your kindness toward Mr. Wheatley and your disdain for the Regency, along with your desire to return Lafe Yingler here to receive justice, are all the indicators we need. We’ve learned of the shift in power on Roathea, you see. If ever there was a time to reveal the truth, that time is now.”
“The Regency sent Lafe Yingler here to infiltrate our borders and impose sanctions on our trade activities,” said Malwyn. “But there was another purpose for which Yingler was sent. You were clever enough to have rooted him out as a traitor, but it seems he hasn’t revealed this bit of information to you.”
“Vilaris revealed himself as Yingler,” I said. “That had nothing to do with my cleverness. I’ve tortured the guy and he hasn’t spilled anything new. Granted, I wasn’t really asking for anything besides his bank account number.”
“Then it would seem a short tale is in order,” said DeGaffe. “This may be a hard pill for you to swallow, Muller, but in ancient times, techsouls were the ones who feared for their lives. When Esperon shattered, and the first generation of techsouls was born, the Regency issued a decree that they be hunted down and exterminated.”
I laughed. “Techsouls… exterminated? But, we’re awesome… We’re better than you.”
DeGaffe didn’t smile. “You were new and different. Frightening. The Regency, in its infinite wisdom, condemned you as freaks. Monsters whose abnormalities and deformities could not be understood by medical experts of the time. Techsoul children were all but stamped out of existence. Of course, a few survived. And your genetic dominance ensured that you became the eventual majority.”
“Okay, so we won. We both know primitives are a dying race.”
“Before the shattering, the Regency kept its records in a secure location a few miles from the Roathean capital. That location was known as the Royal Archives. The Kingsholme.”
I looked around. “Here. Max—the Regent talked about this place. He said it was lost to the Churn during the shattering.”
Malwyn smiled. “It wasn’t. This building contains the Regency’s history—every law, deed, document, and historical record for thousands of years before the world broke apart. So yes, the Regency wants their history back. So they can change it.”
“Who cares about a bunch of thousand-year-old records?” I said.
“The very same people who uphold the Regency’s laws as absolute,” said Malwyn. “Techsouls. Under threat of worldwide domination, the last primitive Regent enacted a law which stated that only a person of redblooded heritage could ever sit the Roathean Throne or receive lordship under Regency sanction. No techsoul would henceforth be granted such privileges under the law.”
“So it’s illegal for a techsoul to be Regent.”
DeGaffe nodded. “Or a baron, or a duke, or any other lord.”
“Why don’t they just change the law?” I said.
“Because few know the law exists,” said Malwyn. “Those who do have chosen to ignore it.”
“So this law would illegitimize the claim of every techsoul lord in the world.”
“Precisely,” said DeGaffe. “Long before the Regent fled his throne, he set the Royal Archive apart, intending to protect it where it stood in hopes that one day primitives might rise again. This place is a legend among the techsoul aristocracy. Based on a recently discovered account of events surrounding the Kingsholme’s fate, the Regent commissioned a division of the Civil Regency Corps and tasked it with finding out whether the Archives still exist. Lafe Yingler was one such agent.”
“What do you think is going to happen when you try to tell everyone they can’t be lords anymore?” I asked. “Just because you’re supposed to be in charge doesn’t mean anyone’s going to let you.”
“We’re well aware of that, Muller,” said DeGaffe. “We’ve been fighting a hopeless war all our lives. We have been waiting for generations for the right time to rise again.”