Winterstrike

by Liz Williams

  ‘This will not do,’ Mantis hissed. She turned to the woman on her left, an older, pinched face under a helmet that did not fit properly. ‘Why isn’t it working?’

  ‘I told you, Mantis.’ The woman sounded weary, and I noticed that she hadn’t added Mantis’s honorific. ‘The engine isn’t configured properly. It’s too old.’

  ‘It’s got to work.’ Mantis reached up and took off her helmet. She looked, of course, like the woman I’d met, but could have been anywhere from twenty to sixty, all bone and pale parched skin. ‘You said you could make it work.’ The plaintive tone of a small child with a broken toy, it reminded me of Shorn. I didn’t envy the inhabitants of the tower, having this for a commanding officer.

  ‘When we found it, you remember, it was in pieces. We’ve done well to make it reach the point that it has. I can’t do any more.’

  ‘It needs more blood, then,’ Mantis insisted. ‘Take the captives in the lower dungeon. Feed them into it.’

  ‘More won’t mean better,’ the lieutenant said. But from the look on Mantis’s face, I didn’t think she particularly cared.

  It was not a process that I liked to watch, but for the sake of the Library we followed Mantis to the engine room. This lay at the heart of the tower, and I thought it might be the cavern that now formed the fighting pit, in which case the engine had long since been dismantled. From the look of the thing, it was Nightshade-made and very old: its sides were pitted and scorched and it still bore the uncanny alphabet of its native world along its sides. A huge thing, blackened, with stumps and spires and wires jutting out from its sides like something assembled by a deranged inventor. It hummed, like Mantis’s bow, and unlike most haunt-tech, which had the sense of death, I had the inexplicable impression that it was alive, just as, in some manner, the Library was alive. And with that thought, I turned to the Library herself and mouthed a question.

  ‘Why are we here?’

  The Library was staring intently at the engine. She pointed a mailed finger at it, like someone casting a spell, and the engine’s hum grew to a sudden roar. Across the room Mantis spun around, open-mouthed. I saw a spark of light flicker from the engine to the Library’s finger.

  ‘What did it do then?’ Mantis demanded.

  ‘I don’t know.’ The adviser looked baffled. I shot a glance of enquiry at the Library but her face was intent and preoccupied. Mantis gave an angry shrug and turned away.

  ‘Set them up.’

  We watched in silence as three pinch-faced women were brought from the dungeons and strapped into a blacklight matrix: a primitive device by modern standards, bearing great coils and curlicues of ebony and silver wire. A flickering array of circuitry lay behind it, sending spiral messages across its face. The women made no sound as they were strapped in, though their eyes burned as they stared balefully in the direction of Mantis. I wondered why they didn’t speak. Perhaps they couldn’t.

  The matrix crackled into life and at the beginning of the array, the first woman’s head snapped backwards, straining against the array. She died quickly; I felt her spirit go into the haunt-engine. The second one took longer and I did not want to watch; I turned away. Mantis seemed to lose interest, and with a click of the fingers left the rest of the work to her advisers. She strode from the chamber and I followed. The Library lingered for a moment, then came behind.

  Mantis went upwards, climbing a spiral stair with rapid, clicking steps. She reminded me of a large insect; some kind of ticking wall beetle. As she passed along a narrow corridor, she began stripping off her armour: first the helmet, then the band which confined her hair and made it look as though her forehead was striped with blood, then the breastplate, until when she reached a door at the end of the room she wore only a series of body straps, breeches and boots, rather like an excissiere. Her skin was very pale, almost a luminous blue in the dim light, and looked hard in texture.

  A demothea cross-breed. I could believe it, watching her now.

  She stepped out into fresh air. The sudden breath of it on my skin was startling, after the confinement of the fortress. I sidled after her, and gasped.

  The dreadnought was hanging in the air above the fortress. I’d last seen it sailing over the Noumenon, and before that, careering down the length of the Grand Channel. The faces of the drowning women were still with me, as though the dreadnought carried the souls of its victims with it, like barnacles. Perhaps it did.

  It looked exactly the same: beetle-green in the moonlight, with its emplacements dangling and coiling from it, as if whipped by a wind that I couldn’t feel. Mantis was shouting something but her words were lost in the roar from the dreadnought.

  A ladder was falling down from the bottom of the craft. Mantis ran forward, leaped as it struck the battlements of the turret with a rattle. Down on the plain, someone was firing, but the bolts fell well short of the dreadnought’s flanks, harmless as pinpricks from this distance. Mantis seized the base of the ladder and was hauled up into the sky: the dreadnought was already lifting up, blacklight sparkling across its sides and shorting out down the firing path of one of the bolts. Down on the plain, I saw a flicker-burst of darkness and there came a cry.

  Above the dreadnought, a crack was opening up in the air. The dreadnought was heading straight for it and it was reaching down to us: this was what it was like to journey through haunt-space, when you’re faced with the moment of your death and then falling into it. I’d only done it once, and never between worlds. Behind me, I heard Shorn cry out and realized that she’d joined us on the battlements. There was a flash, so bright that I cast my arm across my eyes, and then I was stumbling. Shorn and I were thrown against the side of the battlements and when I was able to see again, we’d moved. We were still on the summit of the turret, but it was once again ruined. Something was falling down through the afternoon sky, travelling meteor-fast. It was a ship, but it wasn’t the dreadnought. It went down behind a spire of rock and I braced myself for an explosion, but none came. There was a thin, high whine and a distant thud, sending up a cloud of dust. I wanted to get off the tower: if we were back in our own time, that meant Mantis and the vulpen weren’t far away. I motioned to Shorn and she followed me down the metal-runged ladder that picked its way across the ancient stone. I felt we were going round in circles: up and down, round and round through time, like some nonsensical game. But I was glad all the same when my feet touched rock and the turret once again towered above me. In its lee, with Shorn at my heels, I made my way to the rocks and looked down.

  The ship was small, unfamiliar, and bulbous. It sat in a bowl of dust, surrounded by the rocks. I leaned further over and paused. Directly below me stood a figure. Next moment, I grinned. Time to repay a score. I dropped lightly down the few feet that separated the ledges and snapped an arm around the figure’s neck. She jerked, but I was holding her fast.

  ‘Surprise!’

  Rubirosa sagged slightly in my grip.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you,’ the marauder said. Shorn’s timid face appeared over the edge of rock.

  ‘Hestia?’

  Rubirosa looked sharply up. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘My cousin.’

  ‘Ah.’ The marauder’s expression grew sharper and my suspicions blossomed into life, like weedwood flowers. ‘Wasn’t coincidence, was it? You descending on Peto’s boat? And I’d put good money on there never having been a bomb.’

  It was, it appeared, the marauder’s turn to grin. ‘Peto’s . . . an agent. She wasn’t sent to pick you up, though. Took a day or so for her to realize who she’d got on board her boat.’

  An agent? Of whom?’

  ‘Of the Noumenon.’

  ‘Peto?’ I’m rarely accused of naïveté, and few things surprised me any more, but that struck me as incongruous, somehow.

  ‘Not a willing one,’ Rubirosa said. ‘She was coerced. The Noumenon might seem to keep themselves to themselves, but they’ve got long tentacles and a long reach. When I found out, I came along for
the ride.’

  ‘But I saw you fall—’ I stopped. I knew better than this. I’d seen someone fall. Rubirosa’s knowing smile told me the truth.

  ‘So if you’re not a pirate – who are you?’

  ‘Who said I’m not a pirate?’ Rubirosa asked. ‘I’m for hire. For the moment, I’m working for Gennera Khine.’ The shock of that name hit me as though someone had thrown icy water in my face. The marauder was working for Gennera, who had commissioned Shorn’s making, according to my cousin. Had Gennera told Rubirosa about Shorn?

  The marauder looked up at Shorn, who had come a little way over the lip of the rock and now stood on a ledge, listening. ‘So that’s the missing cousin. Looks like you found her.’ I couldn’t detect anything except mild curiosity in her voice.

  ‘Found a lot else, as well.’ I lowered my voice. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you worked for Gennera?’

  ‘I wanted to see what you’d do,’ Rubirosa said. ‘Wasn’t sure you could be trusted, to be honest. Don’t take it personally. Anyway, Gennera’s arranged transport. We’re going back to Win-terstrike.’

  ‘Very well,’ I said. I didn’t buy her explanation for a moment. It was surely Gennera who didn’t trust me, who had sent Rubirosa to spy on her spy. Rubirosa turned and headed for the ship.

  ‘She’s working for the majike,’ Shorn hissed over my shoulder. ‘I heard her say so.’

  ‘Try and trust me,’ I said. Shorn wavered, but I gripped her hand. ‘I’ll get you out of here,’ I said. I found I’d made a decision. ‘And we’re not going back to Winterstrike, either.’

  Rubirosa was settling herself into the pilot’s seat when I clambered on board the little craft, with Shorn behind me. I struck the marauder once, behind the ear. She crumpled over the console and with Shorn watching, her expression unreadable, I took the ship up and into the hills.

  EIGHTEEN

  Essegui — Crater Plain

  After the Queen’s disappearance, I was immediately confined. I spent the evening chafing against the bolted door and picking at the latches of the little window. Halfway through this process, without any warning, we started moving again. It was growing dark, and eventually the lights came on amongst the refugee caravan. My fidgeting with the window latch was finally rewarded by a breath of cold air underneath the pane: I tore at it with my nails until it gave way. Catching the pane before it banged against the sill, I glanced round. There was no sign of Shurr or the others. I hauled myself up onto the sill and squeezed through the window, dropping to the ground. It was further than I expected. I landed with a grunt and a gasp, but the ground was solid underneath my feet; curious how accustomed I’d become to the swaying, shifting vehicle in the short time I’d been incarcerated in it. Still no one, and I ran – but around the corner of the caravan, I came face to face with Shurr.

  In the lamplight, her face was a startled mask. I struck out, catching her across the cheek. She stumbled and immediately the ground was a writhing mass as a great centipede dropped out of her sleeve and fell to my feet. It lashed out; a pincer caught my boot and stuck in the leather. I kicked up with the thrashing creature attached to my toe, a pantomime performance. I stamped on its head with my free foot and felt it crush. Shurr gave a howl of fury and rushed forward, her veil billowing out behind her. I snatched at the veil and twisted it in my hands, pulling her further in. Then I dodged her strike and whipped the veil around her neck, throttling her until her hands went up and clawed.

  I’d never strangled anyone before and this must have presented a lurid tableau: the vehicle rumbling on, Shurr crumpling to the icy ground, myself curved above her and the centipede still palely thrashing in its death throes. When Shurr had gone limp – not dead, but unconscious – I tore the veil from her head, wrapped it into a bundle and ran in earnest, heading for the canal bank and what I hoped might be freedom. No chance of asking anyone to take me in: I was too obviously from Winterstrike and I thought the Caudi refugees might take advantage of the presence of an enemy scapegoat in their midst.

  I stumbled down the bank, at first trying to avoid the barges that were moored along the water’s edge, but further upstream decided to take a risk and struck out onto the canal itself. The water traffic was so thick at this point that the boats formed a bridge over the canal; I thought I might have a better chance of escape if I took to the opposite bank. I wrapped the brown veil about myself: if anyone saw me, they might take me for a servant of the Queen, or at least, might not recognize the alien garment.

  The journey across the canal seemed to take for ever: a cold breeze blew down from shattered Caud, smelling of gunpowder and ice and making the lamps rock so that reflections splintered across the surface of the water. I could do this, I tried to tell myself. I’d survived two attempts on my life and a kidnapping. I wasn’t just the sheltered child of Calmaretto. Hestia could do this sort of thing. And maybe Shorn already had.

  I avoided those boats that might be fitted with alarms, keeping instead to the poorer-looking craft. I saw few people moving about on deck: most were huddling in the shelter of their cabins, and that suited me. I crawled, clung, leaped across the barges for an hour or more, until the lamps of the refugee train grew dimmed by the rising mist and the further shore swam up ahead. When I jumped down from the last barge onto the opposite bank, and clambered up the steep stone barricade to the land above, I realized what I had done. I had left both Caud and Winterstrike behind and ahead lay the lands of the Plains, and then the hills of the Noumenon. The geise whispered in my head. I thought of my missing sister, took a breath, and walked on.

  By mid-morning, I was a long way from the Grand Channel, though not far enough to satisfy my longing for safety. The ground was rising, giving a sweeping view back over the plain, and the icy rubble was broken up by great boulders, lacy spires and pillars of rock, legacies of early terraforming when this land had been nano-blasted into submission. Ahead, the mountains were visible, and I remembered a superstition that a governess of ours had once told me: All things go to the mountains. Everything ends up there. And now, it seemed as though I would, too.

  Whereas the Hattins, the foothills, were a relatively low range, these mountains, the Saghair, were immense, roaring up into a green sky. The rocks were the colour of flame, and underneath my feet, between patches of snow, the sand was red as rust. Once, all Mars had been like this, until the alchemical transformation wrought upon it by Earth had changed it to the shades that now dappled its surface.

  A buzzing sound, almost subliminal, brought my attention towards the horizon. Something was coming, a dark dot just above the skyline. I ran for the rocks, crouching down in a crack between two of the tumbled boulders. Seconds later, the thing roared overhead: an excissiere craft, needle-narrow, but with no indication of whether it came from Caud or Winterstrike. I didn’t care to chance it. I kept my head down, hoping they weren’t looking for me, and the craft was gone, twisting down over the mountains. The reverberation left by its passing echoed among the rocks for a moment and then all trace of it had disappeared.

  How much power did the Queen’s retinue possess, here on Mars? It wasn’t something I wanted to test. I stayed between the rocks for a quarter of an hour, and then when I was quite sure that the vessel wasn’t coming back, I went on my way.

  There was a track leading up into the jagged rocks of the foothills. At first it wasn’t clear to me that it really was a road: it was nothing more than scuffs in the dirt, something that could have been made by an off-road vehicle. Then, a little way on, the soil thinned out to reveal tarmac. It looked old, pitted and pockmarked and scoured by wind and ice. The geise shivered in my head when I laid eyes on it, making the back of my neck prickle. As I walked along it, I started to feel that I was walking out of my own time, into the far past: if I had seen an early spacesuited settler, from the days before terraforming, I would not have been at all surprised.

  The road wound up into the mountains. I looked back once, to see the empty plain stretching out behi
nd. The masts of the boats that thronged the canal were needle-small. So I kept walking.

  City girls don’t hunt. I wish I could tell you that I’d proved myself in those hills: made a makeshift bow, brought down some small but nutritious vermin. But I couldn’t find any suitable pieces of scrub for making a weapon or a trap, and I didn’t see any vermin anyway. I just got hungrier and colder as the day wore on and I began to think that it might have been wiser, after all, to take my chances with a band of Caudi refugees, or to have braved it out with the entourage of the Centipede Queen. My mothers should have hired an excissiere to find Shorn, not me. And as if thinking about her had conjured her up, I saw Alleghetta again. This time, she was very faint indeed and wore different clothes: her dressing wrap. She shouted something.

  ‘I can’t hear you!’

  Alleghetta looked distractedly around and vanished. Stay that way, I thought.

  I did manage to find water, though I had to break ice to reach it, and to light a fire with the sparkpack I used for lighting the old-fashioned lamps in the bell tower. I missed the tower: somehow, over the years, it had become more of a home than Calmaretto. I wished I too had been able to simply disappear, just as Shorn had.

  Moments later, I wished it even harder.

  The voices floated through the air like moths. I hid in the rocks as soon as I heard them, trying to tell whether they were coming closer. But it sounded as though the speakers were somewhere up ahead, and in one place. Cautiously, I made my way through the boulders until I could gain a vantage point.

  There were four of them, and three were ghosts. They were truly spectral – I could see the rocks through their robes, which drifted in a wind I could not feel – but motionless, unlike the weir-wards of houses, which are almost always moving. Their clothes suggested that they were from the Noumenon itself: robes of fawn and grey and black, like the old illustrations I’d seen in books. One of them was human, or appeared so: she was, at least, more substantial than the rest. She wore armour, a leather harness, which flickered. I thought she might be an excissiere, but she wore no identifying emblems. She was speaking in animated tones, gesturing, but I wasn’t close enough to hear what she was saying.