The Ingenious

by Darius Hinks

  They sprinted up the hill, peering into the shadows beneath the trees, but there was no sign of him.

  “You idiot,” muttered Sermo as he grabbed a piece of paper and studied it. It wasn’t a sketch of the ruin, it was a sketch of Vola’s burned face. “He saw you.”

  Sermo folded the drawing and tucked it beneath his robes, grimacing. “Well, whatever we might have learned about him, it’s meaningless now. He won’t come this way again if he thinks people are after him.”

  They headed down the hill and walked back under the stooped trees, heading for the archway that led back out onto the street.

  “Not my best work,” said a voice in Sermo’s ear as an arm wrapped around his shoulders and a blade came to rest against his throat. “But you’re not much of a model.”

  He tensed, but had the sense not to pull away.

  Vola turned to look back at him. He cursed and drew his knife, but backed away as he saw the falcata Brast was holding to Sermo’s throat.

  “I still think it’s a reasonable likeness though,” continued Brast, fishing the drawing from Sermo’s robes. “Good enough to pay me for at least.” He nodded at Vola. “How much have you got?”

  Vola snarled but, before he could say anything, Sermo said: “Just give him what you have.”

  Vola fished some coins from his robes and tossed them on the path.

  “Good start,” said Brast.

  Vola shook his head and threw a dozen more coins to the ground.

  “And your friend’s,” said Brast.

  “Careful,” Brast warned, as Vola approached Sermo. “You don’t want me to slip.”

  “On the left,” muttered Sermo, directing Vola to the coins.

  “Now let me go,” said Sermo, when there was an impressive pile of money lying on the grass.

  “Perhaps,” said Brast, sounding quite amused by the situation. “Perhaps not.”

  “That’s all we have,” said Sermo.

  “Why were you following me?”

  Sermo met Vola’s eye, giving him a silent warning.

  Neither of the men answered the question.

  “Then maybe it’s a no,” said Brast, tightening his grip on Sermo’s shoulders.

  “Hiramites!” gasped Vola.

  There was a clatter of armour as a group of soldiers entered the park. They wore tall conical silver helmets of a peculiar design, forged to give the impression that the soldiers’ faces were upside down, with a hooked nose and snarling mouth above the eyeholes. The effect was as disturbing as it was intended to be. Hiramites acted as Athanor’s standing army, but also as its law enforcers and, when they saw what Brast was doing, they began hurrying across the grass, drawing their swords.

  “Wait,” said Sermo. “We can get you…” His words trailed off as he realized the blade had gone from his throat. He reached up, expecting to find blood pouring from his jugular, but his neck was intact.

  He dragged Vola from the coins and they sprinted through the trees, making for the other exit as the soldiers raced after them, ordering them to halt.

  8

  Phrater Alzen cursed as he entered Verulum Square. He had forgotten that tomorrow night was the last night of the celebrations. The Festival of Undying Light would take place under the stern gaze of one of the Curious Men and Athanor would formally welcome its new citizens and settle into its new life. As a result, the square was swarming with people. Banners were being draped from the arms of veiled statues and scaffolding was being erected across the facades of crumbling mausoleums. Alzen had arrived alone, on foot and divested of his ceremonial gown, not wishing to draw attention to himself, but now, faced with legions of commoners, he wondered how he would find anyone. Verulum Square was a beautiful ghost – a memory of the time when this corner of the city had been the most popular burial place for Athanor’s nobility. The architecture was in a different style to much of Athanor, but no less grand, colonnaded tombs topped with cinerary urns, fragments of age-worn friezes and huge, spiral columns supporting shattered statues, but everything was crumbling into disrepair and only used by families that were too poor to be buried in newer, more vibrant parts of the city. With every conjunction, Athanor grew, sprouting new streets and absorbing new cultures and, with each new limb, a part of the city’s core was abandoned, like the rotten trunk of a tree pushing all its strength into new growth. But this crumbling necropolis had hosted the Festival of Undying Light since before records began. However sad it seemed this morning, tomorrow night it would be reborn, as glorious as it had been when the city first tore itself free.

  Expecting the square to be empty, Alzen’s message to the Aroc Brothers had been a vague order to meet him near the fountain at its centre. As he stepped out into the crowds, Alzen could barely see the fountain. As well as the workmen erecting marquees and hanging lanterns, there were already hundreds of celebrants, arrived early to find a good vantage point. Alzen made his way through the stinking crowds, peering at the fountain and trying to spot one of the Aroc Brothers. They were not brothers at all, not even all male. The name of their organization was one of the hallmarks of stupidity that had led Alzen to choose them out of all the gangs he might have employed. But he assumed they would at least have the wit to send someone that he would recognize. His message had made it clear that he was furious.

  Alzen spent an angry few minutes circling the fountain, keeping his face hidden in his hood, until he finally saw someone he knew. Sayal was the leader of the brothers and he was accompanied by four of his men – glowering, low-browed brutes, clutching weapons Alzen had helped them acquire: gleaming, bulky crossbows.

  Sayal nodded in recognition but remained seated on the steps of the fountain. The man’s nonchalance shocked Alzen. Sayal may have been the gang’s leader but he had never shown such blatant disrespect. No one else in the square knew who Alzen was, but Sayal did. He should at least have risen and performed a discreet bow. Alzen glanced at the crossbows, feeling a premonition of danger. He had a knife under his robes, but he was not armed in any alchymical sense. He shook his head, irritated by his own nervousness. What possible threat could the Aroc Brothers be to him? The meeting with the Old King had spooked him, that was all.

  He strode over to Sayal and glared down at him.

  “Rise, when greeting one of the Elect.”

  Sayal remained where he was for a moment, leant back on his elbows, smirking at his men. Then he stood and dusted himself down.

  As Sayal sauntered towards him, Alzen had to resist the urge to strike. His whole demeanour was disgraceful.

  “We expected to hear from you sooner,” said Sayal.

  The Aroc Brothers belonged to some nondescript, sub-human species that Alzen could not even name. Sayal and his guards were humanoid, but grotesquely gelatinous and protean. Sayal’s head was pale, translucent and rippling, like the pulsing umbrella of a jellyfish. Alzen could see his brain, bulging and reforming beneath the surface, like quicksilver melting in a crucible. His skin was moist and he had the eyes of a fish, huge and unblinking with no irises, just large, misshapen pupils, suspended in a metallic soup. All of the brothers were big, nearly seven feet tall and hunched over by the weight of their bullish, muscled shoulders and long, powerful arms. All the Aroc Brothers wore their hair in the same bizarre fashion: thin plaited strands, so thick with grease it stuck to their scalps like rivulets of black oil, pouring from the crown of their misshapen heads. They were freakish, ugly-looking things, but they understood their place and had never shown him such disrespect before.

  “Not here,” snapped Alzen, glancing at the people rushing past. He nodded to one of the gloomy avenues that led off the square.

  Once they had found a quiet spot, in the doorway of a crumbling mausoleum, Alzen pushed Sayal back against the frame and glared, ignoring the crossbows that were pointed at him.

  “What happened?”

  Sayal’s body shifted and reformed beneath his palm. It was like pressin
g into cold porridge. He snatched his hand away but continued scowling.

  “It was a fuckup.” Sayal was still wearing the same infuriating smirk.

  “No one should have known the shipment was there.” Alzen was still battling the urge to hit the man, but he sensed Sayal was about to share some news with him.

  “Agreed,” said Sayal, “but that’s not really your biggest concern.” Sayal lowered his voice, even though they were alone. “Your metal man was seen.”

  Alzen clenched his fists as Sayal took obvious delight in sharing what he thought was a surprise.

  “It smashed half the warehouse down, by all accounts, then danced through the streets. We killed most of the witnesses.”

  “I know what happened,” said Alzen. “What do you mean you only killed most of the witnesses?”

  Sayal looked disappointed that he hadn’t surprised Alzen. “Well, we killed all of them bar Isten.”

  “Isten?”

  Sayal laughed. “You don’t need to worry about her. One of the Exiles. She’s a wreck. I heard she’s gone to the Sisters of Solace looking like a corpse. And if she comes out of there alive no one would listen to her anyway.”

  Alzen shook his head, but before he could say more on the matter, Sayal continued.

  “I’ve been considering the terms of our deal, Phrater Alzen.”

  Alzen’s shock was almost as great as his fury. “How dare you,” he whispered, pleased to see a flash of fear in Sayal’s eyes. “It’s thanks to my cinnabar that you’ve dominated half the city. I could kill you in your sleep. And I could do it without even entering that ridiculous palace you’re polluting. I could fill your veins with silver and turn your heart to iron.”

  Sayal shook his head. “Your Holiness. What do you think will happen if I suddenly die by your hand? You know how many brothers I have. And they all know your name. And they can all sing like birds. People already know alchymia has been used to protect drugs. And then used to kill me as well? I’m sure your fellow phraters are keen to know exactly who was responsible. Isn’t your whole doctrine based on ‘purity of spirit’? Devotion to your Art?”

  Alzen gripped the knife handle tighter. “You know nothing of the Art. And if one of your blubber-faced siblings tried to enter the Temple District they would be killed for sacrilege before they breathed a word of slander against me.”

  “Of course. But we would not be so stupid as to try and approach your noble brethren.” He glanced at the crowds in the square. “We have more lowly friends, Phrater Alzen, but they are numerous. Some are even the laborators who buy your metals and work in your temples. They would all be fascinated to learn that one of their august masters was our chief supplier of cinnabar.”

  “Spread your rumours. Laborators would not dare speak against me, and if they did, no phrater would listen.”

  Sayal gave him a concerned smile. “Can you be sure? Can you be sure such a salacious rumour would never reach the ears of the Old King? From what you said, you and he are not exactly the best of friends as it is.”

  Sayal held up his hands and smiled. “But there’s no need for any of this, Your Holiness. There’s no reason for our agreement to end so acrimoniously. We’re not asking much. And I have no desire to see you executed.”

  “What do you desire?”

  “You’ve already been so generous,” said Sayal. “There are no gangs who would dare threaten us now. We’re so well armed and we’ve stockpiled so much cinnabar that we could feed the market for years even if you never gave us another ounce of the stuff.”

  “Stockpiled? You were meant to flood the market. To ensure that there wasn’t an addict in the slums who went without.”

  “Exactly. And now we’re getting to the nub of the issue, Your Holiness. The market is indeed flooded. The Azorus slums are awash with drugs, as you requested.” He coughed and the effect was disturbing, causing his flesh to ripple and bulge. “Which is why prices are so low.”

  “Prices? What do prices matter to you? I’ve given you everything you need.”

  “Wealth is what we need. And not the pocket change you give us, Your Holiness. Real wealth. The kind of wealth that comes from charging the proper price for things.”

  “You’ve been holding drugs back?”

  “Yes. And we intend to keep doing so, Phrater Alzen. In fact, we mean to tighten our grip. Supply and demand. You must understand, Your Holiness. We have our families to think of.” Sayal gripped Alzen’s arm, darkening the sleeve of his robe with gummy fluid. “But we’ll still need your cinnabar, Your Holiness. We need to keep a steady supply.”

  Alzen was trembling with rage, but he already felt as though he had said too much. He needed to think in the privacy of his cell and then decide how to deal with this treacherous worm.

  “Just one last thing, Your Holiness,” said Sayal. “After tomorrow night’s job at the festival, I think it’s best if I decide what happens next. I’ll send you a message. I’ll decide the time and place of the next meeting.”

  Alzen was dazed by the man’s presumption, but Sayal was already sauntering off down the avenue with his guards, heading back to the crowded square.

  Alzen wanted to hurl his knife into the man’s back, but he took a deep breath and leant against the doorframe, shaking his head, shocked by the whole encounter. Sayal could no longer be trusted. He would need to deal with him, but he had to think carefully about how. The disaster in the warehouse had already put him in danger.

  Thinking of the warehouse reminded him of something else. He was not happy that a witness had been left alive to roam the city. Sayal said she was with the Sisters of Solace, but what was her name? He gripped his head, trying to squeeze the memory from his skull. “Isten,” he hissed, after a few seconds. Then he rushed down the alleyway, whispering her name as he went.

  9

  Numberless and fearless, the pilgrims came, washed up on the riverbank like shells, heavy with memories and scars and hoping for a new world. Athanor crushed them under its heel, brutally indifferent, leaving the fragments lapping in the shallows. But a few broke the surface, fighting the current, reaching for hope.

  Brast had left Isten on a columned veranda that surrounded Alabri House. He stayed with her for a while, cursing her for dragging him to such an out of the way place. He’d sounded furious, but she knew he was really just worried. Her convulsions had been growing worse on the way back through Coburg Market, and she was so weak that Brast had practically carried her the last half a mile. Alabri House was beautiful, a sprawling, single-storey building built entirely of driftwood. It looked like a graceful wave, whitecaps frozen in the act of cleansing the filth of the city. Its gnarled, sun-bleached curves always filled Isten with a sense of calm before she’d even entered. As soon as she heard movement in the house, she ordered Brast away, keen to be rid of his hangdog face. He’d hesitated, but she’d summoned the last of her strength and warned him off, explaining that the Sisters would not be pleased to see him. Once he was gone she’d leant back against one of the columns, hidden from the rising sun, and fallen asleep.

  When she awoke, she was being carried down a high-ceilinged hallway, decorated with shimmering, white tiles and punctuated by dome-shaped archways, all screened with billowing, gossamer-thin curtains. She could remember the hallway clearly enough from her previous visits, but everything through the archways was harder to recall – a dreamlike collage of unrelated scenes and faces.

  She was being carried by Naos, the Sister who nursed her last time. She was as Isten remembered: powerfully built and heavily muscled with a short, grey beard and sad, drowsy eyes. Isten had guessed long ago that the Sisters were something other than they appeared to be, but even their mask was wonderful: a beautiful, perfect vision of androgyny.

  “I’m unwell again,” said Isten, finding it surprisingly hard to speak. Her vision was failing, obscured by a blizzard of silver lights, making it impossible to see anything clearly. She was aware that
Naos was smiling at her, but she could only see her face by not looking directly at her.

  “You’re dying,” said Naos, pausing by one of the archways.

  There were two old men seated to one side of the curtains. They were on small, wooden stools and locked in an embrace, looking at the floor with their foreheads pressed together and their arms thrown over each other’s shoulders. They were whispering urgently but talking over each other, rather than conversing. There was a copper bowl on the floor between them and, every few seconds, a drop of blood would fall from one of their faces and hit the bowl, making it ring like a ceremonial bell. The blood vanished as soon as it touched the metal.

  As Naos approached, the men fell silent and the blood ceased falling.

  “He’s on his way,” they said, speaking in unison. They spoke in such a strange, heavy accent that Isten could barely understand the words. “He knows she’s here.”

  Naos nodded, then pushed through the curtains and carried Isten inside.

  The room was full of scented smoke that enveloped Isten, easing her pain and returning a little strength to her limbs.

  Naos placed her back on the floor and Isten found that she was able to stand.

  There were shapes moving through the fumes and, as Isten’s eyes adjusted, she saw that they were not in a room, as she had thought, but on the shores of a small, foggy beach. She laughed. Naos had brought her home. This was the stretch of coast she had played on as a child, before Gombus smuggled her out of the country. She dropped to her knees and plunged her hands into the cold, wet sand, letting it tumble through her fingers as she inhaled the mist-filled air. Somewhere, in the distance, she could hear her mother, speaking to a crowd of followers, eliciting roars of approval, describing glorious changes that she would never live to achieve. The scene was both lie and truth, like everything in Alabri House, but Isten did not question it. She lay back and looked at the grey sky, the sky of a world with fixed seasons and constant stars; a world that was nothing like Athanor.