An Artist's Eye (Dica Series Book 5)

by Clive S. Johnson

  As soon as Phaylan’s backside hit the seat, he engaged the wheels again and drove right over the prostrate figures, knocking two more out of the way. He didn’t take the craulena far, though, before stopping again, albeit briefly, whilst two of his crew - breaths held against the air - rushed out to check the wheels.

  When Phaylan learned they’d found nothing amiss - just some ham-fisted rounding of the heads of a few bolts - he forged on. It turned out that more than the one wheel had been tampered with, clearly showing there had been more of the things out of sight at the rear.

  “What were they?” Breadgrinder kept asking, as though the more he did so the more chance someone would miraculously know. He only let it rest when Dialwatcher said how creepy it had been, seeing one of them grind to a halt, as though spontaneously rendered lifeless.

  When next they found level ground and stopped, maybe fifteen minutes later, watches were posted at all the windows. Maybe they’d gone far enough or had simply crippled all the existing figures, but the craulena fortunately remained unmolested for the rest of the night.

  The thin air went uncomfortably cold during the early hours, keeping most of them awake, so Phaylan was glad of the distraction when he took his own watch towards dawn. It meant he soon gained first sight of how near they’d got to the towers.

  The slope above the craulena turned out to be clear of buildings, giving an unimpeded view for about half a mile to the north. Instead of the small domestic buildings they’d so far encountered, larger, more purposeful walls rose at the far side. Their frontages looked darker, plainer, almost leaden.

  Beyond them, the towers themselves rose to fill much of the now pale amber sky. Their upper reaches glistened with dawn sunlight, but how far away they were proved difficult to judge. They were, however, clearly huge.

  “Within striking distance now,” Breadgrinder surprised Phaylan by saying, his voice gruff with the remnants of a poor night’s sleep.

  “The sooner we find out what they are, the sooner we can get safely away,” Phaylan said as he stretched his arms and yawned. “Come on, let’s get us all fed and on our way.”

  Soon, the first mate could be heard clambering about in the back, needing no orders from Phaylan to issue his own. Despite all the cooped up bodies, their breath hung in the air awaiting the sun’s much needed warmth. Cold rations didn’t help much, but at least it filled their stomachs.

  By the time the craulena had been cranked into life, all the visible heights of the towers now sparkled in the sun. The sight, though, stole their gaze to the detriment of finding their way, eventually bringing them to a low-walled dead-end.

  Beyond it, across the remains of a cobbled yard, a broad road could be seen climbing straight up the hill towards the towers. Phaylan stoked the engine and set the craulena crawling forward, its large front wheels scrabbling at the wall.

  Abruptly, they mounted it, helped on their way by the wheels at the rear, and lurched into the yard with a dull thud. The arched legs straightened, lifting the body clear until the rear wheels finally followed on.

  Once out of the yard, on the opposite side and onto the road, they began the climb towards the towers. The craulena had a fair turn of speed and so they soon approached the brow of the hill, steadily revealing more of what they’d earlier assumed to be leaden buildings.

  They’d been wrong for it turned out to be a wall. More of its slowly curving stretch came into view, bending away into the distance to the west and east. Perhaps no higher than three or four storeys, it presented a featureless barrier along the skyline.

  When they were about a quarter of a mile away, Phaylan spotted a darker patch at its base, directly ahead of them. He also noted that just before it the road appeared to dip out of sight. A ramp, as they soon found out, down which the road slipped beneath the wall.

  “If that’s gated,” Dialwatcher said, “then we’ll likely never find out what’s beyond. Just look at how solid it is,” but Breadgrinder would have none of it.

  “We’re goin’ to ‘ave to find a way through, or over,” he said, most emphatically. “We can’t turn back wi’out knowing.”

  “Knowing what?” Dialwatcher asked.

  Breadgrinder blustered and gave no ready reply, mumbling something about having come all this way.

  “What’s more important,” Dialwatcher persisted, “than knowing that this place has long been dead, eh? Doesn’t look like there’s much in t’way of market opportunities here anymore, now does it?”

  “Well, what about them figures?”

  “Thee reckon they’ll be in need o’ t’best Bazarran cotton and flash new carriages, eh? Does thee?”

  Breadgrinder had by now become morose and refused to be drawn.

  “Why don’t we just wait and see?” Phaylan suggested as he slowly drove the craulena onto the ramp and down towards the baleful darkness beneath the leaden wall.

  37 Of Sowing Seed

  The camper van’s cab door clicked open far too loudly to Falmeard’s ears. He paused, listening.

  Nothing but silence filled that last hour of the night, not even a breeze. A still peace pervaded the air; a breath held before the new day’s dawn.

  He peered up through the sharply tapered gap between the door and its opening and saw the ridge rise blackly against the faint, silken shimmer of the sun’s high kiss, the sky barely shy of a blush.

  Slowly, Falmeard eased the door wider and stepped out, his feet crunching on the last of Eastern Walk’s gravel. He paused and listened again, but all remained still.

  Treading as lightly as he could, he left the road and felt his way into the cut, the rock sharply cold to his touch. Cold and hard, hard enough beneath his feet to give no sound at all of his quickening step.

  The door was hardly visible, no more than a close feel against his measured breath. To Falmeard, it almost had a scent of its own, a dull metallic taste of purpose - a waft of memory. Hardly able to believe he was here at all, he reached out tentatively, his fingers tingling in anticipation.

  A glance up and he saw the sky beginning to lighten, a rectangle of passing time framed by immutable rock, but still the world stayed silent.

  When he again looked at the door, reward came only slowly to his adjusting eyes. A hint of a figure stood before Falmeard, a ghostly lustre hovering upon the door’s dull surface. He saw his own fingers resting lightly on its chest, its smooth skin seeming to warm beneath their touch.

  Falmeard felt a stare, snatched his hand away and stepped back a pace, his eyes darting up to the figure’s face. “The face of an artist,” Falmeard said beneath his breath and slowly smiled. “That’s something you can never do,” he told the figure, “smile, not without a mouth, nor,” and he reached his hand to his neck, “nor in those hollow coals that pass for eyes.”

  He took the pendant from beneath his jerkin and held it away, to the limit of its chain where it glowed like a pearl, picking up the strengthening light of dawn.

  “Left or right?” Falmeard asked. “To which should I offer a long awaited sinuous serpent, eh? Lieft oth rihte doest snaca gaan?” but no answer would ever come from the figure’s absent mouth.

  To its blind stare, though, Falmeard stepped nearer and offered up the pendant. His hand hovered uncertainly until he heard the rear door of the camper van swing open, and Nephril’s cough and spit of phlegm.

  Lieft, Falmeard thought, and gently pressed the pendant-eye to the figure’s own left socket. Without a sound, the door swung open and in he stepped, quietly pushing it closed behind him.

  Suffused with faint blue light already hinting at sunrise amber, a narrow passage ran a short way from where he stood. Falmeard now stared at another but this time plainer door, one with a simple handle.

  Although only a few strides, his mind raced fast enough to make it seem an age before his hand grasped and quietly lowered its lever, and before the door creaked and cracked against its long-pressed union with its frame. Falmeard was about to apply his shoulder when
the door suddenly fell open and pulled him through. He stumbled in to stand open-mouthed before - himself.

  “Hello, Falmeard,” the apparition said, “come on in. You’re a lot earlier than I expected.”

  “Earlier?”

  “Would you like a nice cup of tea? I’m sure there’s still enough power to make you one.”

  Falmeard could only stare as seemingly his own form crossed the small room to a tap and sink in the corner where a kettle was filled. Whilst the apparition placed it on a stand on an adjacent table, and clicked a switch, Falmeard noticed that a single upright chair completed the room’s sparse furniture.

  “Things have plainly not gone well,” the apparition said, unsealing a packet of tea and spooning a measure into a teapot, “for you to turn up at my door instead.”

  Falmeard’s mind spun. “Instead? Instead of who?”

  “Who? You can’t remember?” The doppelganger frowned and stared at Falmeard.

  “I don’t ... don’t remember much at all. It’s been so long.”

  “Not nearly long enough. I wonder if the mix was wrong. Maybe too much human blood.”

  The kettle boiled, clicked and rapidly quietened.

  “Who are you?” Falmeard finally asked, finding it very strange to be apparently asking himself such a question.

  “Ah, clearly your remote hideaway has had a more debilitating effect than expected. They did wonder, but it couldn’t be helped. Maybe looping through second millennium Britain wasn’t quite tranquil enough.”

  The apparition froze mid-frown and stayed that way long enough to draw Falmeard near. He waved a hand before its eyes but nothing happened.

  “Are you ... are you all right?”

  “Fine, thank you.”

  Falmeard started.

  “Sorry, but I’m not used to being awake,” and he smiled. “I’m Falmeast by the way, and seeing you seem to have forgotten, your receptionist and facilitator.”

  “Falmeast? Err ... do you mind?” and Falmeard pointed to the chair.

  “No, no, not at all. Be my guest. It must be a bit overwhelming, all things considered. I could do with stretching my legs anyway.”

  Falmeard sat down and stared at the door, still open from his sudden entry. His mind raced but kept tripping up over odd fragments of memory. A hot mug nudged his hand and he stared down.

  “No milk I’m afraid,” Falmeast said, “but there are sweeteners.”

  “Err, thanks. No, this’ll do fine. I prefer it black.”

  It tasted a little dusty, uninteresting, but it refreshed which was all Falmeard needed.

  “Who,” he began, “who were you expecting if not me?”

  “Well, the Guardian of course, the Guardian of Galgaverre.”

  “Penolith?”

  “If that’s the name of the current incumbent then yes. I take it things were pretty bad by the time Leiyatel called you back? Is anybody left?”

  Falmeard tried to think but felt overwhelmed, as Falmeast had rightly supposed. “Err ... some still, yes.”

  “Humans I mean. Otherwise your journey here will have been in vain.”

  “Humans?”

  “My, my, but you do seem to have forgotten an awful lot. And in such a short time.”

  “Short time? What? A hundred and sixty thousand years?”

  “Dica was expected to last much, much longer. The ultimate collapse here may have been understandable, but Dica had been so carefully engineered. The epitome of stability they’d said. It should have lasted aeons. How’s the tea by the way?”

  Falmeard lied, “Very nice, thank you. What ... what did you mean by humans?”

  Falmeast looked taken aback. “Well, those who’re completely biological of course, and largely free of genetic modification.”

  “Right. Yes. I see, but how can you tell them apart from ... from...”

  “From the Bazarran, the Galgaverran and the High Dican?” Falmeard nodded. “Simple. It’s part of the targeting package I’ve yet to give you. I’ll take you through it all before you go. It’ll give you all the human family names; names like Averon, Bosherin, Greymuster, Haydeemer, Longshanks, Sodbuster, Plumdoer and the like.”

  “Sodbuster?”

  “Amongst many, yes. Do you know them?”

  It reminded Falmeard of his promise to Nephril, that Prescinda not be left too long without his presence. “Err, yes, I do,” he managed to say, absently, for other ideas were already crowding his mind.

  “Falmeast?”

  “Yes, Falmeard?”

  He was about to ask what was so important about those particular families - about those human families - when he remembered the Star Tower. “It’s only humans who can maintain the fabric of the universe isn’t it, against Nature’s chaos?”

  “Not particularly, no, any life will do. But you should know that already.” His expression clouded. “You are in a poor state, Falmeard, if you can’t remember our purpose, and that of Dica. It’s just that human life is better equipped you see, to look much further out into the universe.”

  “As the Star Tower allows?”

  “Ah. Good. Things are coming back to you,” but they weren’t, not really.

  “Also,” Falmeast continued, “humans do have their own guilt to contend with. They did after all just about wipe out almost all of this world’s life. We are their last ditch attempt to make amends. Oh, and speaking of which, I ought to take you through a few things.”

  The thought of Prescinda again niggled at Falmeard’s mind and he wondered how long he’d been absent. Falmeast, meanwhile, busied himself at a small door set in the wall. When he turned from the hole behind it, he had a metal folder in his hand.

  Falmeard had to ask, “So, how do we preserve human life in Dica, now ... now that Leiyatel is dead?”

  “How do you, Falmeard, is the question, and here’s the answer.” He placed the folder on Falmeard’s lap and clicked it open. “Everything you need to know is in here,” and he pointed at the stack of revealed papers.

  Falmeard riffled through, noting that many contained lists of names. He was busy looking for Sodbuster when a thump came from the table, lifting his eyes from the papers. He immediately recognised the small cask that now sat glinting beneath Falmeast’s hand, a hand that proudly patted its sealed lid.

  “The new replacement Leiyatel,” Falmeast announced.

  Oh no, not again, Falmeard thought, but didn’t have the heart to say.

  “And in there,” Falmeast said, pointing at the folder, “are all the families you need to father children by.”

  “Father? Children?” and Falmeard looked aghast. “All these?” and shook the sheets of paper at Falmeast.

  “As soon as. Your seed was activated when the old Leiyatel called you back, and must now be planted, so there’s future human life suitable for this new Leiyatel to favour.” Again he patted the cask, beside which Falmeard now noticed a carrying frame.

  Well, that explains a lot, Falmeard thought as he remembered his reunion with Geran.

  Falmeast peered thoughtfully at Falmeard. “Without this new Leiyatel’s matching code inserted into their blood, humans will only eventually wither and die. Don’t worry, though. You’ll find your ability to implant the memory of a shared history in people’s minds will now be much stronger, so saving you a great deal of time wooing.”

  Falmeard stared at the papers in his hand, then at the glinting cask on the table. More confused than ever, he finally turned his gaze to Falmeast’s disconcertingly familiar eyes. The mouth beneath them also appeared to be his own, but it conveyed an ease he seemed to have lost.

  “So,” Falmeast said, “unless you’ve got any further questions, how about I top up your tea? It must be getting pretty cold by now.”

  38 Life’s Last Binge

  The sound of a click preceded a more open feel to the room, followed by the shuffle of feet. By the time Falmeard had looked up from his filling cup, past the tipped teapot in Falmeast’s hand, Nephril already
stood in the room’s open doorway.

  His eyes were wide as they flicked between Falmeard and his double. Nephril’s frozen form blocked Prescinda’s way, although she could be seen peering over his shoulder.

  “What?” Falmeast exclaimed before Falmeard felt scolding tea spill over his hand.

  “Ow!” he shrieked, drawing everyone’s eyes, but he soon recovered. “How ... how did you two get in?” he asked, to which Nephril lamely held aloft his own staring pendant, making it now five eyes peering into the room.

  As soon as Falmeast saw the eye, he put the teapot down on the table. “You must be Guardian Penolith, although why you’re here after Falmeard I can’t imagine. Do come in, though ... but who’s this?” and he stared hard at Prescinda.

  The shock of seeing two Falmeards gave the one she knew time to intervene. “Ah, yes, of course. I forgot to mention that the Guardian of Galgaverre,” he said pointedly, “and his assistant, Prescinda,” and threw her a guarded look, “had both accompanied me.”

  “The Guardian?” Nephril said.

  “Yes,” continued Falmeard as he turned to Falmeast, “Guardian Penolith insisted on getting me here ... to save me the walk you see ... and the delay.”

  Prescinda stared disbelievingly at Falmeast who simply asked her, “A Galgaverran I presume?”

  “Yes,” Falmeard hastily added, “Prescinda drove our carriage here.”

  “Carriage?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  Prescinda had managed to squeeze past Nephril and now stood just inside the room, still staring at Falmeast. “Who, in the name of Leiyatel, are you?” and Falmeard sighed.

  Falmeast seemed quite accepting of his new guests, taking Falmeard’s rather disingenuous introductions at face value, although there weren’t nearly enough mugs to offer them all tea. Nephril had astutely assumed Penolith’s persona, and Prescinda slowly seemed to be coming to terms with the fact there were now two Falmeards in existence.

  “I’m surprised you’ve survived Leiyatel’s passing,” Falmeast said to Nephril and Prescinda. “It must have been more protracted than envisaged. It was fortunate the two of you met so soon, though,” he added, looking between Falmeard and Nephril.