by Ian Whates
"Well, yes, sir, I do." As he said it, he realised this was exactly what he thought.
"It just so happens that I agree with you, Tylus, which is why I intend to see a training facility for the guard established here, in the City Below. Each and every officer will be required to serve a term here, giving them a taste of life away from their pampered existence in the Heights. Of course, the new facility will have to be overseen by an officer of the guard who has experience of the streets, and I can only think of one who fits the bill." He looked pointedly at Tylus.
"Me, sir?"
The prime master grinned, as if delighted by his reaction. "Yes, you, sir, if you're willing to take on the job."
Was he? Did he really want to give up the comfortable life and comparative luxury of the Heights to live and work down here? A few days ago, the thought would have appalled him and he would have considered anyone who even contemplated such a choice to be mad. But then he thought about how alive he had felt since arriving here, and about how effective he had been as an officer, and that led to him recalling how unfulfilled and inadequate he had felt before coming down here.
"Well, officer?"
Tylus took a deep breath. "Yes, sir, I'll do it."
"Excellent!" The prime master smiled broadly. "That's settled then. Of course, we can't have such an important operation run by a simple unranked Kite Guard, so it would mean promoting you to the rank of, say, captain. Does that sound acceptable?"
Captain? Now it was Tylus's turn to smile. "Entirely acceptable, sir, and thank you."
The other shook his head. "No thanks necessary. You've earned it, Captain Tylus."
For some reason, Tylus's thoughts turned to Sergeant Goss and he couldn't help but wonder. "Tell me, sir, you say every officer - would that include sergeants?"
"Most certainly."
Tylus grinned broadly. The more he heard about this proposed new position, the more he liked the sound of it.
As he left the prime master's chamber, still in a bit of a daze, he was surprised to bump into Dewar. He had assumed that, as an employee of the senior arkademic, the man would have been in disgrace and more than likely arrested by now. Perhaps he was less guilty than Tylus gave him credit for.
"Dewar," he said a little guardedly.
"Kite Guard," the man acknowledged.
"Are you here to see the prime master?"
"Already seen him." Judging by the man's expression, that audience had not gone as well as Tylus's own. "It seems I am to be exiled."
"Ah." No wonder he looked fed up. Suddenly words seemed inadequate, at least any that Tylus could think of. "Well, good luck," he finally managed.
Dewar grunted and with that the pair went their separate ways.
Exiled? Not that Tylus was surprised, on reflection. Circumstances might have briefly thrown the two of them together but he had never particularly liked the fellow or fully trusted him; those eyes, they were far too knowing.
EIGHTEEN
Tom found the Swarbs to be a sociable and likeable crowd. Some of the men Red introduced him to recognised him at once and had obviously been part of the crowd gathered on the walls the night he dropped into their nets. He learned it was not only people they trawled from the skies, but all manner of things.
"You'd be amazed at some of the stuff them up-City chuck away," one man confided. "Beautiful things, and worth a pretty penny too, often as not."
Tom was having so much fun he was almost disappointed when the prime master eventually returned to collect him, apologising for being away so long. When Tom heard where the man intended to take him next, he demurred, explaining, "I'm not very good with heights." The walls at night time had terrified him; the thought of something similar in the fullness of daylight froze him to the spot.
The prime master looked surprised, as if the idea of such a thing had never occurred to him, though his next words proved otherwise. "I suppose it's to be expected, given your background." A warm smile then lit his face, wrinkling his cheeks like folds of soft leather. "Fortunately, there are ways around such things."
"How do you mean?" Tom was instantly suspicious. He had no intention of going anywhere near the outer skin of the city at a high altitude, no matter what safeguards were promised.
"In some cultures, deep-rooted phobias are overcome by hypnotism, wherein the sufferer is placed into a state of trance, relaxing them and bringing their subconscious to the fore, which is then highly suggestible and so more accepting of instructions that quell the relevant fear." Tom shivered; this sounded all too similar to the Maker's devices tampering with the street-nicks' minds. "Effective much of the time, but crude. Here in Thaiburley, we can be a little more direct." The prime master's smile now seemed conspiratorial. "May I?"
The request brought to mind the Thaistess, Mildra, who had asked for Tom's permission in exactly the same manner before healing him. Swallowing on a dry throat, Tom nodded. After all, he had already let this man into his mind once.
He braced himself in preparation for some form of mental invasion and in the expectation that the prime master would reach towards him, perhaps place fingertips to his head, yet he didn't touch him, didn't move at all, and all Tom felt was the faintest of caresses, like a soft breeze ruffling the edges of thought.
"There," said the prime master, "all done."
Tom blinked. "Really? I hardly felt a thing."
"I should hope not," the old man said, feigning offence. He then sighed. "I only wish that all the city's ills could be cured so easily. If we had a hundred times as many arkademics, healers and Thaistesses, then maybe, but we don't, so must make do with what we have." He looked across at Tom and the infectious smile returned. "Are you ready now?"
"Yes," Tom replied and to his amazement discovered that he was.
"So this is it," he murmured. It would have felt wrong to speak loudly in such a place.
"Yes, Tom, this is the Upper Heights, the roof of the world, or of the city at any rate. Magnificent, isn't it?"
Magnificent was the right word, beyond any doubt. Around him rose a forest of turrets and spires and columns, some pointed, some sculpted, some oddly crenulated. All were carved from the faintly yellowish stone of the city, although many were discoloured with the passage of time, black sooty marks and other whiter deposits producing a mottled effect which enhanced rather than diminished the scene's appeal. Several were of uniform height and design, but even more were not. There appeared to be no overall pattern or plan, no symmetry to the arrangement at all, and yet the effect was beautiful, majestic beyond anything Tom had ever imagined. He turned this way and that, taking it all in.
For long moments neither of them spoke. Simply looking was enough.
"I never dreamt..." he began at length, but the words trailed away. What had he imagined? Something flat and featureless? Something solid at any rate, but there was nothing like that here. Walls rose and fell. The city's very highest Rows, where the Masters lived and held court, must be comprised of individual buildings he realised, even as in the City Below. A town built on the roof of the city itself; no, growing out of it, he corrected himself, since each building must presumably be accessible from below.
"Few people ever do," the prime master said softly. "Who could? And yet one man did; the architect of these levels, a man called Carley. He's barely remembered now, but in his day he was hailed as a genius while privately thought a madman. And the truth doubtless lies somewhere in between, that he was a little of both. Certainly no ordinary mind could have envisaged all this."
Tom shivered and pulled the cloak closer about him. The awe-inspiring nature of his surroundings didn't alter the fact that it was colder here than he remembered from the walls.
"Yes, it can get a little chilly up here at times," the older man commented. "Just be grateful this isn't winter. Come, walk with me."
A broad promenade extended around the inside of the city's outer wall, which they began to slowly stroll around.
"It goes a
ll the way around, this walkway. If we had the time and the inclination, we could set out from this point and arrive back here several hours from now. It's a walk I've always intended to make one day, but have never yet managed to." He chuckled. "It would appear that I have the inclination but not the time, and, as I say, it's an undertaking which requires both."
Wisps of smoke seemed to rise from a nearby column. This was an example of one of the commoner styles: three tall thin columns rising in parallel to meet a bracket or cuff which held them together at the top. Seeing the smoke, Tom suddenly realised what they were - chimneys, which had been cleverly incorporated into the overall design
"A remarkable man, Carley," the prime master continued. "He managed to combine aesthetics and practicality to conjure up this. The whole idea, you see, is that from wherever you stand on this walkway and in whichever direction you look, you're rewarded with a stunning panorama; something that's both interesting and beautiful. Carley was an artist, with the whole of Thaiburley's roof as his canvas, and he gave us a masterpiece. While others scurried around beneath him, carving out a mountain and spreading outward from its face, he was up here, levelling and reshaping the summit with peaks and valleys of his own." The prime master accompanied the comment with an expansive sweep of his arm, taking in the roof of the city. "Not so much a roof, as a crown."
Tom thought he caught a flicker of movement by a nearby turret. He peered but couldn't see anything there. However, as he peered at that spot, a shimmer in the corner of his eye again suggested that something had just taken refuge behind another more distant column.
"They're teasing you," the prime master said quietly. "Try to ignore it, or you'll only encourage them."
Tom stared at him, his mouth suddenly dry. "The demons, you mean?"
"Indeed, or so they're commonly called."
Tom's curiosity stirred. "What do you call them then?"
The man laughed. "I was told you were sharp. What do I call them? Many things, most of them far from complimentary, but on the whole, I refer to them as avatars."
Tom had heard the word and associated it in his mind with some of the religious sects in the City Below, but he had no clear idea what it meant.
"This is more than just a city, Tom. In many senses Thaiburley is alive. There's a force lying at the very centre of things here, which, in effect, is the heart of city, a force which gives Thaiburley its identity and integrity. This force is what arkademics are trained to utilise and shape, what the healers of the City Below can tap into in a very minor way, and what you are able to call upon to a far greater degree, despite never having been trained in such arts."
"You mean when I hide?"
"Yes, that and other things, such as when you destroyed the dog master's creatures. The demons are directly linked to this force, its purest manifestation."
The demons continued to flicker at the edge of the boy's vision, tantalising with movement but little form. He had given up trying to turn towards them, realising that in doing so he was playing their game and would never be quick enough. Instead, even while listening to the prime master, a part of his mind concentrated on trying to see them in the corners of his eyes.
"This 'force' is alive then?"
"Ah, there you hit upon the crux of a debate that has been ongoing for centuries. My own suspicion is that it all hinges on how you define life, but the truth is, we don't know. Nobody is entirely certain what our ancestors harnessed at the core of our city. Perhaps through you, we might find out."
"Me? How?"
"Those who built Thaiburley could interact with the core far more readily than we can today. The minor practitioners you're familiar with - the naturals with no formal training such as seers and healers - are all distant descendants of the city's founders. The core recognises their heritage, the trace of founders' blood which flows through their veins, and allows them to access its power in a very limited way; though few if any realise this is what they do. By some fluke of bloodlines and parentage, the founders' blood flows stronger through your veins than in any individual seen in centuries. The core recognises that and so grants you far greater access. That is the source of your unique abilities, which, when you fully realise them, will be the match of any wielded by the senior arkademics and masters who have studied and toiled for years to perfect the art of core-manipulation."
Tom stared in horror at the prime master. Was the man serious? Apparently so, judging by his expression. The news caused a peculiar twisting inside him. He did not feel excited or even intrigued by any of this, but rather horrified. All he wanted was to be a street-nick, no different from any other; unimportant to anyone except himself and those who knew him. Yet he seemed to have become noticed by all manner of people of late. He felt suddenly chilled, and not just by the gusting wind.
"I know this is a shock, Tom, but there's nothing to be afraid of, I promise you."
Easy for him to say. Tom felt giddy, a sensation that recalled the dread when he first looked over the city's walls a few nights ago but which was also akin to the feeling that had washed over him as he escaped the scene of the sun globe's crash: that of being completely overwhelmed by events. Suddenly, he didn't think he could walk any further, and stumbled to a halt.
"Time to turn back?"
"Please."
And they did so, with Tom no longer paying attention to the view or to the mischievous flickering of demons. It was strange; after he started trying to see them in the corner of his eyes he had caught glimpses. Nothing certain, just insubstantial impressions, but he thought he had seen humans with golden hair and sweeping white feathered wings.
The demons looked like angels.
Even that subject, though, was pushed to the back of his mind. He had more pressing things to ponder. Whether he liked it or not, it seemed Tom was going to have to get used to the idea that his life had changed for good. Being a street-nick was far from an easy existence, but it was what he was used to and what he could cope with. How would he survive doing anything else?
Kat had slipped away from everything without challenge. The Blade weren't interested in her. It seemed she was an irrelevance to most people these days, though not, unfortunately, to the one person to whom she might wish to be.
Rayul's death still haunted her, though it was no longer the aching, burning pain which had driven her to seek out first the Maker and then the dog master. It had cooled to become a solid dark lump of grief deep inside her; a twisted blackness which tore at her sense of being whenever she stopped to consider it.
On her way here she had seen street-nicks looking cowed and a little bewildered, and reasoned that the devices no longer influenced them, perhaps due to her killing the dog master. So things were returning to normal, which meant that for everyone else life could go back to being as it had been. She'd guided Tom clean across the City Below in extraordinary circumstances and was proud of that. But now the boy could return to the Blue Claw a hero, and doubtless to his precious Jezmina. While Ty-gen could find someone else to fence his khybul sculptures easily enough. No one was going to miss her.
It was funny, but after all she had been through in recent days, Ty-gen's intricate sculpture of the city no longer seemed important. What could she have done with it in any case? Nothing, except sell it. There was no room in her nomadic existence for an object of such delicate beauty.
As for Tom, she had grown close to the boy, no denying it, closer than with anybody since she had left the Tattooed Men, but so what? When she first met him all she saw was a kid, a slightly timid little street-nick with something to prove to himself and the world, and it was true that as they travelled together that had changed. In a remarkably short time she had come to see him as a person she might trust and like. Not that she had room in her life for boys or romance or anything like that. Besides, even if she had liked him in that way he was too young for her; and he had this Jezmina girl waiting for him.
As she slipped into the vast and imposing building before her,
now derelict and showing the fact after a remarkably short time, she did so with a sense that this would be the last place she ever saw.
Not that she wanted to die, not that she had any intention of allowing such a thing to happen. No, she was going to go down kicking and screaming and fighting with every iota of her being, but she had a feeling that death was coming to claim her anyway.
Her footfalls were silent and light, barely disturbing the dust that coated the floor of the corridor. Emerging into the space beyond, she paused at the lip, gathering herself in preparation for walking out into this theatre of ghosts. This place recalled the worst times of her life, and the best. The smell of blood, of sweat, of animal fat and oil smeared on limbs so as not to allow opponents a firm grip, and overlaying it all, the smell of fear. With memories accepted and acknowledged, she stepped warily into this place where life and death had been decided on so many occasions. It was empty now of all but those memories, but she had plenty of them to keep her company.
Here for one last performance, her body responded to the occasion and her steps grew more confident, until she strode into the arena as she had so many times before, never knowing who would walk out alive again and who would be left dead in the dust behind.
The same then even as it was now.
She was amazed at how familiar this all felt. Somehow she had expected it to be different, a faded echo of the place she remembered in her nightmares, a place that might still look familiar but which felt entirely otherwise; yet the sheer presence of this large domed building still pulled at every hurt and fear and insecurity that shadowed her dreams to this day, as well as awakening the savage joy of combat, the blood lust and the heady elation of victory and survival, those twin sisters of destiny.
As she walked, she peered beneath the mist of memory to see the sorry state of dilapidation. Many of the benches where the crowd used to sit were now broken or ripped out. The griddled iron gates which used to be pulled aside to release terrors upon the Pit Knights - the mocking title given to those who fought here, whether man, woman or child - lay discarded in the dust. Yet this was still the place where it all began, where she first faced and meted out death. The place she had vowed never to set foot in again.