Madness of Flowers

by Jay Lake

  She didn't flinch, but neither did she welcome the words. "You may be seeing the last of us."

  "For my own part, I would greet that prospect with sorrow. Still, it will be nice to have my City Imperishable back to the usual drunkards, muggers, and Burgesses. Without magickal trees erupting, or Bijaz making men into thorn bushes." He paused, studying Kalliope. "Please do find out what happened to Onesiphorous. I'd like him back. Even if only for a funeral."

  "I will do as I can." She finished her roll. "Right now I should go find my brother and try to keep him out of trouble for the day. Do you need to see him again?"

  Imago considered that carefully. "Sad to say, probably not. He seems to bear trouble with him everywhere, as do I. The two of us together always bodes poorly."

  Kalliope opened her arms. He leaned forward to hug her. She grabbed him fiercely around the shoulders, her breath smelling of kava and cinnamon. "Find another line of work, friend. This one will kill you."

  "You too," he whispered, and kissed her ear.

  She pulled away, smiling. "A different time, with luck. I have something of a taste for small men."

  With that, she was gone.

  He picked at the rest of the rolls, trying to decide if he would miss her and wondering where Marelle had gotten to.

  The pale dwarfess came into his office a few minutes later, just as the morning bell on the rooftop erupted into its usual racket. She seemed to be vibrating, as if it was she being rung.

  "Cullingford said you were here," Marelle announced in the thick silence which followed. She spoke very quickly. "Have you seen today's broadsheets? They're terrible. You look like the hells, too. Go wash up." Despite her words, she shoved a stack of papers in his face.

  Imago took the stack and studied her carefully. Marelle's eyes shone. She was smiling. "I see you've returned."

  She seemed seized by an attack of bashfulness. "Yes."

  "Welcome back." Imago turned the papers over.

  Broadsheets. The Revelator was on top, with a headline that screamed, Baillifs Murthered in L. Palace!!! The next had a similar lead.

  "Who?" He squinted at the sloppy printing of the top story.

  "The big serjeant that hated you, and one of his men."

  A cold chill stole down Imago's back. "Robichande?" He began looking for Wedgeburr's name.

  "Yes." She stared at him, her happy enthusiasm drained. "You know something."

  Imago felt sick. "Judge-Financial Wedgeburr tried to have Robichande kill me last night. The serjeant refused. I was left with the balance of power. I turned my back on the man and walked away." He clarified: "When I could have killed Wedgeburr myself, I mean."

  "The Lord Mayor does not kill people."

  "No," said Imago. "He has others do his killing for him. I could not see slaying a Burgess as being a useful thing for me to have done."

  "So Wedgeburr killed Robichande?"

  "The man was small," Imago said, lost in regret as to what he should have done. "I'm not sure how it might have been accomplished, but yes. It must have been him." He focused on her. "Are you back? Here, working with me?"

  "Yes," she said simply.

  "Then send a note to Provost Selsmark and First Counselor Fallen Arch. Tell them that I am certain the killer is Wedgeburr, and will swear that out before a bench." He tapped his fingers together. "Make sure also that Enero knows this. I'm far more afraid of Wedgeburr than I have been of anything or anyone else in recent times. The man's cracked, and he's quite wealthy. It's a terrible combination."

  "He's a judge. Is this something from your old days as a barrator?"

  "Wedgeburr tried to have me killed when I was first making trouble last fall. Jason saved me the night the riot burned part of the Limerock Palace. The man's come quite unhinged since then." He snorted. "Assuming he was fully hinged before."

  "Right." She made a note on a foolscap pad.

  "And for you, is there anything I should know?" The question assumed a disproportionate import as soon as it left his mouth.

  She eyed him with speculation. "Perhaps. Enough that I am back, for now. Also, I accept your job offer. I will be your chamberlain. I should not have fled."

  "Thank you."

  "As your chamberlain, I insist you look through those broadsheets. There's another set below the ones about the murders. Probably more important."

  Nothing was more important than murder, at least to the victim. He flipped down until he came to Truth's Silver Horn. Not one of Ducôte's, he noted. The headline read: Elections to Unseat LM Imago.

  Imago groaned. "Another note, if you please, to Fallen Arch only. Please tell him that I beg the courtesy of an address to the Assemblage of Burgesses in full session. Indicate that soon would be excellent, but do not make it appear that I am in a rush."

  "Are you?"

  "Of course. You did read these, didn't you?"

  She snorted. "The broadsheets have also reported on giant beavers in the sewers. I do not believe everything I read."

  "I might believe giant beavers," Imago said. "In this city, especially. But no, part of Wedgeburr's little maneuver yesterday presumed my being thrown of out office by an act of the Burgesses. That little shit Fidelo has declared for Lord Mayor through some secret process known only to the Burgesses and their toad-eaters. I believe I damaged his candidacy yesterday, but anything's possible."

  "That would be the next paper down."

  He looked, dreading what he would find. Sudgate Seeker. Lord Mayor Brazenly Batters Hapless Youth.

  "Thank you. I needed that. Now you know why I generally don't follow the broadsheets." Imago set down the papers and extended the basket. "Roll?"

  "No, I have memoranda to compose."

  He stood and attempted to hug Marelle just as she turned for the door. The moment was awkward, stretching out in a painful silence. "I'm glad you're back," Imago said, abandoning the effort.

  "Me too." She did smile then, for a moment, before departing.

  Imago found that he had a headache. "I believe I shall leave my post," he told the empty office. "And let someone else take up the scattered threads of this city."

  His office made no answer. Instead of quitting, Imago worked his way back through the broadsheets, to see what else the City Imperishable was telling itself about him.

  Bijaz

  They camped far enough from the cliff edge to avoid an unexpected fall by a late-walking piss taker. Bijaz was exhausted from his watchfulness the previous night. He didn't bother with a tent—the stars were clear and cold, without even a mist to trouble him.

  Wolves howled all night. The sound was lonely and frightening, but Bijaz still found it oddly comforting. Other creatures snuffled in the high country darkness as well.

  The faint whistles were most disturbing. They floated on the night air from indeterminate distance. He counted shooting stars until sleep took him into deep dreams of blood-filled furrows, tall trees reflected in the pooling carmine by the dark of the moon.

  Ashkoliiz seemed confident of her course the next morning. The column formed up at dawn without any casting about. The ice bear had reappeared overnight, come by a secret path.

  The creature led that morning. Wee Pollister and a wedge of his heavy troops made up the van. Here in walking country, the light troops shared the supply loads.

  The column moved up a valley which narrowed and deepened as the day went by. They followed a dry watercourse. The banks exuded a loamy scent, underlain with rotting algae from the stones beneath his feet.

  Bijaz found himself walking alone near the column's tail. That was fine with him. The rearguard pretended indifference, never coming closer than a dozen paces behind.

  He watched the trees. Something waited here in the North. It likely wasn't on this side of the Silver Ridges, but he detested the thought of being surprised.

  They marched for hours, deep into shadow. The sun was lost behind bends in the towering rock walls. If there really had been a nickel mine up here,
Bijaz couldn't see how they'd gotten the extracted metal anywhere useful.

  Orders passed down from ahead called the column to a halt. Bijaz turned to look for the rearguard. They were nowhere to be seen.

  Damnation.

  He hurried forward, shouting for Pierce, Wee Pollister, or the Northmen.

  The sky above had darkened to a narrow river of stars. Evening brought mist and the scent of wet stone, but also panic. A search party had been sent for the rearguard. Everyone kept staring at Bijaz.

  He assumed the searchers were looking for unaccountable sprays of rose petals further down their line of march. Bijaz was forced to take company with Ashkoliiz and the one Northman she hadn't sent out.

  "You continue to escape my hospitality." She studied a small leather-bound book.

  "It is not for a lack of gratitude, lady." He looked at what she was reading. The leather binding was slick and oddly grained, the folios yellowed and brittle, covered with a mixture of black letter presswork and copperplate script.

  She turned a page, still not looking at him. "If you desire reading matter, I have a small traveling library. Largely historical topics, I am afraid."

  "Thank you."

  Finally she glanced up at him. "I trust you did not improperly dispose of my rearguard?"

  Anger made Bijaz's temples pulse, but he held his tongue.

  Another of the Northmen slipped into Ashkoliiz's pavilion, speaking in a low-voiced language of clicks and sliding vowels. The Northman's fingers moved with his words.

  Ashkoliiz answered the Northman briefly in the same language. He then departed with a thoughtful expression that left Bijaz wondering who had been reporting to whom.

  She spoke up. "Iistaa says they were taken about three miles down the trail."

  "He's Iistaa?" Bijaz tilted his head to indicate the departed Northman.

  "No." Ashkoliiz sounded distracted. "The ice bear. Six men, taken within seconds of one another. Little blood, no dropped weapons, and no broken trail up the banks on either side. The search party ranged a mile further back but found no evidence that the men had been dragged that way."

  Alates, he thought. "Snatched from the air?"

  "Perhaps." Her gaze was long, level, and cool. "You will be pleased to know they found no rose petals."

  "At least they checked." He didn't bother to mask his sarcasm.

  "You are a most troublesome little god."

  "I am hardly a god."

  She reached into a nearby traveling chest and held up a glass jar stuffed with gold and brown petals. "No man made flowers of bats on the wing."

  He let that pass. "What will you do now?"

  A chuckle. "Put out word that the rearguard was taken by the mountain teratornis. That story is as true as any other and it will keep the next rearguard doubly alert."

  "How do small miracles and the secrets of roses fit into this? I am concerned for my own safety, as you might imagine."

  She steepled her hands. "You are free to make your doss with the command tent. I will allow rumor to resolve your worries, so as not to create false concern with an official announcement."

  "Your generosity is exceeded only by your thoughtfulness, lady."

  He sat awhile, watching her read and pondering what it meant that the ice bear had a name. By the time Ashkoliiz went to address the men, he was dozing off.

  So it went for two more days. They marched up an increasingly rough trail, thick with trees. When the Northern Expedition crossed burn-scarred clearings, they only saw other higher ridges. He twice glimpsed a distant flatness behind them brown as summer grass—the plains of the Saltus basin.

  No more mysterious casualties occurred. A number of non-mysterious casualties did happen, including a shooting.

  Bijaz heard the gun go off. He followed close when Ashkoliiz and Iistaa moved back down the line to investigate.

  Several of Wee Pollister's heavies held Arcus, the twin from Port Defiance. Gambardella, one of the few Bijaz could still hope to count as a friend, lay on the rocks. His forehead was shattered. Brown foam oozed from his mouth. Ashkoliiz exchanged a long quiet look with the bear.

  "Have him made comfortable and bound to a sledge of poles." Ashkoliiz nodded at Arcus. "He and his brother will carry the wounded man. If Gambardella dies, the twins will draw straws to see which one's life is forfeit. The loser will execute the winner." She looked around slowly. "There will be no more such stupidity."

  "Lady," Arcus gasped, "it was—"

  The ice bear growled, silencing the man.

  Ashkoliiz's voice was as frozen as her eyes. "Does any man here doubt my command of the Northern Expedition?"

  No one in the ring of watchers would meet her gaze.

  "Good," she said. "Here in the wilderness, I am guide and judge and sage. No other. Heed me well, and we shall all live to be rich and famed. Heed me poorly, and you will die unremembered on the hard rocks of the North."

  She turned and walked away.

  For his emerging doubts, this was the first outright misstep Bijaz had seen her make.

  That night they camped in a long, sloping meadow. Arcus and Orcus refused to draw straws over Gambardella's fresh-dug grave.

  "As lief, kill both of us as one," Arcus shouted. His eyes were wide, the sweat of fear coating his face like lacquer in the firelight.

  Orcus stood silent and close to his brother.

  Bijaz saw no way for Ashkoliiz to salvage this. It was a bloody business at best.

  She stalked around the twins. The mountebank wore her finest silks tonight, with gems at her ears and neck and wrists. Judge, sage, or priestess bent on sacrifice.

  She stopped behind Arcus and leaned in close. Her voice was pitched low, but with that trick of speaking that had every man around the fire straining at her words. "Tell me why one should live, when another has died at his hand?"

  "Accident, lady." Arcus' voice shook with fear. "A mercy, p-p-please . . . "

  "Mercy!" She pointed at the mountains bulking higher above them. "Do the stones have mercy? Does the mountain teratornis know pity? What of the wolf and the bear, each hunting for her clan's blood totem?"

  "Mercy, lady," said Bijaz, stepping close so that he faced her across Arcus' shoulder. He could not let this go on. She would tear the men apart, and doom him with herself. "Mercy because you are not a mountain, nor a great bird, nor a dark forest full of fangs and leaves."

  She started slightly at those last words, which gave him brief pause. She had felt something of the same fear of trees which had deviled him.

  Bijaz continued: "Mercy, because mercy makes us human. And good sense, because the mountains and their beasts will tear at our numbers like dogs on a dying horse." He pointed at Arcus. "This man, or his twin, might be the one who can see us all home. If you must have justice, whip him to his knees or proclaim a were geld from his share. But do not be cruel. Not when it is in you to show your love for your men, and your sense that any of us may hold the key to life for all."

  Ashkoliiz stared him down. Then she winked. Turning with arms spread wide, she made her pronouncement: "The godling dwarf speaks well. I forgive Arcus of Port Defiance his life, and the life of his brother. I fine him one gold obol, to be paid from his share to come. I fine Orcus one silver obol, and charge him with his brother's parole. Their money I grant to the dwarf as gift for his defense of their misdeeds."

  The men roared. The fatal fascination of an execution had given way to relieving drama. Bijaz knew theater when he saw it. He'd been played again. First she built him up, then she tore him down.

  Had the whole thing been a trap for him? He doubted that. Ashkoliiz was capable of making an example of both brothers. But she never pursued merely a single purpose.

  The mountebank was not the sole dramatist around this fire. Nor was she so clever as he'd believed, to let affairs come to this pass. Bijaz played his part, bowing with arms spread to match Ashkoliiz's. He turned to Arcus, wiped the sweat from the man's astonished face, then fl
icked the drops away as a spray of fireflies that rose in a pale green swarm.

  "Your life is your own," he said quietly.

  The men made way for him with a muttering, fearful respect that was far preferable to knife-pointed hatred.

  Dawn's bright fire threw the cliffs ahead in sharp relief. Bijaz stood outside Ashkoliiz's pavilion staring north, wondering where the path went next. They confronted another face as sheer as what had met the Saltus at its northmost bend. No globe cities were here, nothing but vertical scoring in the rock as if the mountains had been poured into place. The nearest cliff rose from the sloping meadow topping the network of canyons they'd been climbing for days.