by Darius Hinks
It was Brast. He was watching her from the other side of the path. He looked wary and troubled. She had never seen him with such naked emotion on his face. He was staring at the dagger she had drawn on him.
She lowered it, embarrassed.
“Don’t tell me what it was,” he said.
“What?”
“Whatever you did to get those drugs. I never want to know.”
She was about to lie, to protest, when he held up a hand for silence and continued.
He nodded to her tear-streaked face. “I don’t want to leave you like this.” He grimaced and looked at the ground. It was clearly painful for him to speak so openly. “I hate what they’ve done to you – Gombus and Puthnok and all of them. You never asked to be their saviour.” He looked up and his eyes were full of sympathy. “I remember when we were children, Isten, before they got their hooks in you, before they drove us to…” He waved his wine bottle in a vague gesture, signifying all their various vices. “I don’t want you to end like this, Isten. I won’t talk about what you said. I won’t tell the others.”
Relief flooded through her and she was about to thank him when he held up his hand again.
“On one condition.”
She nodded, dreading whatever he said next. He loved her. He had done since they were teenagers. What did he want in exchange for his silence?
“You have to let me help you,” he said.
“Help me what?”
“Help you escape this – whatever mess you’re in.”
She massaged the back of her head, wondering if such a thing was possible. Yes, she decided, remembering her plan, and the mark on her arm. It had to be possible. And Brast could help.
“Get me sober,” she said.
Brast’s eyes widened. He clearly hadn’t expected that.
“Lock me in a room if you have to, but get me sober. I have a plan. I know what to do, but I need to think straight.”
He laughed bitterly. “It won’t be pretty. After all these years.”
“I know.”
“What about the agents?”
Isten shook her head. “What was I thinking? Why would they be waiting here, where they were weeks ago? They don’t live in this park, hiding in the bushes, just waiting for me to walk past.” What had seemed so sure just an hour ago, now seemed absurd. “I was drunk. I wasn’t thinking straight.”
Brast looked around the park, nodding slowly. Then he noticed the crossbow Isten had thrown on the grass.
He stared it as if it were a serpent. The sight of it seemed to make up his mind. He held out his hand. “A sober Isten. Is the world ready?”
22
Isten lied without compunction or shame, armouring herself in fiction before she learned to walk. She knew, even then, that survival hinged on the speed of her wits, and the strength of her lies.
Alzen ripped Coagulus from the corpse and slumped against the wall of the lean-to, waiting for rapture to arrive. The noise of the scavengers outside faded away as he sank into his own mind, chasing the currents of Sacred Light that Coagulus had leached from the youth. He could see the final point of transfiguration. It was there in the eddies and whorls of his conscience: supreme reason, the Absolute; omnipotence; the Ingenious. So close now he could almost touch it. Absolute mastery of the Art. Freedom from the limitations of his flesh. Ascension. For a second, he thought he had it – that he was going to lock his fist around divinity and rise from this wretched hovel reborn, ablaze with insight and power. Then it slipped away, like every time before.
He cursed and opened his eyes, assailed by the grim reality of his surroundings: filth and flies and, through the packed-earth walls, the wailing, ugly cries of the boy’s family and the clamour of the gulls. He felt crushed. He felt the weight of his body like a heavy suit, anchoring him to the temporal world.
“Where is it?” he hissed, glaring at the corpse. Every one of his augurs had told him he would achieve his goal. He had done everything correctly. So why did the moment of ascension still elude him? When he was working with Isten, passing his alchymia through her body, he’d felt as though he was on the cusp of success, but now, if anything, he seemed to be falling back from his goal. Despair threatened to overcome him. Then he shook his head. He would not give up now. Not when he had done so much. He felt a brief chill as he recalled the multitude of corpses he had left behind, just like the twisted wretch lying before him. If he wasn’t the Ingenious, he was a simple, sordid murderer. The idea was absurd. He just needed to feed more souls through Coagulus. The final steps were always the hardest. He just needed to increase the volume of Prima Materia. He needed more souls. The thought calmed him. He pushed himself away from the filthy wall and dusted down his ceremonial gown.
He arranged the corpse in a more dignified position and slowly opened the door, allowing the grieving relatives to enter.
“The plague had spread to every part of his body,” he said, clasping hands and patting shoulders. “There was nothing I could do except ease his passing.”
Dozens of whingeing, malodorous wretches forced their way into the hovel asAlzen pushed his way back outside into the morning light, gasping for fresh air. There was none to be had. It was already getting hot and the slums were hazed by a miasma of flies and steam. The crowds outside were uninterested in the tragedy in the hovel. They were just amazed to see a Curious Man at such close quarters. They swarmed around him in their dozens, calling out for blessings and dropping to their knees in the mud, full of hope and fear.
Alzen waved vaguely as his attendants led him back to the palankeen, accepting their prayers. The metal carriage unfolded at his approach and he breathed a sigh of relief to have a golden barrier between him and the mob. He settled back in the seat and the machine jolted into life, the spider-like legs raising him up, away from the mud.
As his carriage lurched and swayed along the riverbank, his attendants went ahead, asking for news of people with plague. Thanks to the Exiles, almost everyone in the district had at least sampled the cinnabar he laced with alchymical minerals. It would be easy enough to find someone appropriate.
A scrawny, dark-haired woman ran past, trying to get a glimpse of him, and Alzen was reminded of Isten. He had found himself thinking of her a lot over the recent weeks. Since he returned from the city walls, he had still received the occasional glimpse of her thoughts. She must have decided to leave his mark on her arm. He had only peered into her mind a few times before he tried to pretend the link had been severed. There was something sordid yet enticing about it that troubled him. It was like the vile woman had a hold on him. It would be possible for him to sever the connection himself, but something stopped him. He could not help wondering if his lack of progress stemmed from the fact that he was no longer conveying his power through her. He shook his head, repulsed by the idea of wallowing in her consciousness. More souls. That was all he needed. And the slums were full of them.
Sunlight flashed in his eyes, blinding him for a moment, and when his vision cleared he saw that some of the crowds were rushing away from him, excited about something else – something in the sky.
Alzen leant out of his carriage and saw a dazzling sheet of gold, flipping and tumbling through the clear blue vault, approaching from the direction of the Temple District. It looked like a pillar of flame had fallen from the sun and was dropping towards the Saraca. It was so bright that it took Alzen a few seconds to discern its true shape: an enormous griffin, wrought of the same golden wirework as his palankeen – broad, glimmering wings, the body and tail of a lion and the head of an eagle, all intricately woven from metal strands and coils and ignited by the glory of alchymia.
The crowds on the riverbank were overcome with emotion. To see one Curious Man was a miracle, to see a second was beyond imagining.
The winged carriage looped and banked for several minutes, eliciting cries of delight from the crowd before finally dropping down onto a mud bank, pounding its might
y pinions as it landed, enveloping the crowd in clouds of dust and rubble before finally settling and folding its wings on its back.
Alzen steered his carriage back up the riverbank, weaving between huts and piles of salvage, making for the proud, metal creature.
By the time he reached the mud bank, the griffin’s back was unfurling and unthreading, revealing the yellow-robed passenger within.
Even before the Curious Man had climbed out of the cage, Alzen recognized his portly, awkward frame.
“Phrater Ostan,” he called, as his palankeen settled next to the griffin. He could never remember seeing Ostan outside of the Temple District. Like most of the Elect, he considered the rest of the city a dangerous, squalid place, best left to the vulgar commoners. Alzen immediately sensed that something was wrong. Only dire news would have dragged Ostan to the slums.
Ostan stepped from his carriage with reluctant, prissy steps, clearly horrified by the idea of walking in the rubbish-strewn mud.
Alzen climbed from his carriage and rushed to help Ostan, and the crowds on the riverbank fell quiet, watching the scene with shocked expressions.
“What are you doing out here?” demanded Alzen as he reached Ostan and grabbed his hand, just in time to stop him tumbling headlong into the filth.
Ostan kept his flame-shaped helmet on, but Alzen could see the panic in his eyes. “We’re going to war,” he gasped, lowering his voice so that only Alzen would hear.
“War?” Alzen laughed. “What are you talking about?”
Ostan’s voice was trembling. “Phrater Herbrus has been killed.”
Alzen shook his head, unable to speak for a moment. He had never heard of such a thing. The Elect died of old age, of course. Even the Art could not entirely protect them from the clutches of time, but to be killed? It was unthinkable. “How?”
“Savages, out on the city walls. They attacked his camp in huge numbers.” Ostan placed a hand across his chest, as though trying to protect it. “They butchered him, Alzen. They cut off his head.”
“Not possible.” Alzen shook his head, dazed. “He had summoned Ignorant Men. I saw…” He faltered, remembering that no one knew what he had seen. “I saw him when he left the city,” he said, instead. “He was planning to use Ignorant Men to crush any of the headhunters who resisted.”
Ostan leant back against the flank of his griffin, looking dejected. “They used monsters, Alzen. Some kind of demonic monsters. They overwhelmed his Ignorant Man and then killed Herbrus.”
“What about the hiramites? He had dozens of soldiers with him.”
“Apparently, the day before the attack, someone broke into the camp and stole the weapons Herbrus had requested. The hiramites were massacred.”
Alzen felt suddenly weak. Killing the vulgar was one thing; causing the death of a Curious Man was another. “Surely the Ignorant Man was more than enough defence?”
Phrater Ostan did not seem to hear him. He was still slumped against his carriage shaking his head. Then he stood up again, grabbing Alzen’s arm. “The Old King is sending us to the city walls. He wants us to drive the savages back.”
“What?” Alzen’s panic grew. “I can’t leave the city. My work is progressing. I’m close to something wonderful.”
Ostan sounded annoyed. “We all have work, Alzen. I have been–”
“You don’t understand!” snapped Alzen. “This is important. I have to be here.” He waved his sceptre at the slums. “I can’t leave the city.”
Ostan’s voice was hollow. “It’s a royal edict, Alzen. You and I and all the elder phraters are to go. We must finish our work in the temple and ready ourselves for the journey.”
Alzen glanced around at the crowds. “Very well, I will finish up here and–”
“No, you don’t understand. I have been sent to fetch you. The Old King has summoned us to his private chambers. He wants to speak to us today, to explain what he requires of us. We have to leave now.”
Alzen’s pulse was rushing in his ears. The sunlight flashing on Ostan’s carriage burned into his head, clamping around his temples, causing him to grimace.
Ostan fell silent, staring at the mud and, even through his panic, Alzen pitied the man. Ostan never left his laboratory if he could help it. The idea of leaving the city must have been horrific for him. Alzen placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t worry, Ostan. I’ll make Seleucus see sense. It’s madness to send men like you and me to do the work of hiramites. We’re not soldiers. We should be here, pursuing our studies.”
Hope flashed in Ostan’s eyes. “Do you think so? Do you think you can reason with him?”
“Of course. This is absurd.” Alzen began climbing back into his carriage. “I’ll meet you there in an hour. And we’ll put a stop to this nonsense.”
Ostan nodded, looking slightly less afraid, and climbed back into his own machine. “For God and the Temple,” he said.
“God and the Temple,” grunted Alzen, as his carriage lurched into movement, scattering peasants and attendants as he powered back up to the road.
Mightiest of all the domes in the Temple District was the one topping Mosella, the private residence of the Old King. The Specular Adulis was a mountainous, mirrored vault, studded with pearls and rotating constantly, powered by hidden engines of such subtlety and ingenuity that one appeared to be witnessing the revolutions of the heavens. Huge sconces lined the walls, spewing columns of scented smoke that coiled beneath the vault, confounding the eye and adding to the sense that the spinning dome was not the product of human hands, but a glimpse of infinity.
Alzen strode hurriedly across the octagonal hall, his robes hissing behind him over the cool, tiled floor. Other phraters were arriving from dozens of doorways, muttering greetings and looking as anxious as the last time Seleucus had summoned them together.
Beyond the great vault of the Specular Adulis, Mosella became a maze of antechambers and chapels, all constructed of the same polished glass as the dome. Light filtered down through the facets, landing on the monochrome mosaics that snaked across the floors, portraying serpents and dragons devouring their own tails.
Alzen followed the flow of the crowd, acknowledging each greeting with a nod of his head, but refusing to be drawn into conversation. Dozens of hiramites lined the approach to the Old King’s private audience chamber. Seleucus’s honour guard wore the same upside- down helmets as the soldiers that patrolled the city but, rather than falcatas, they carried tall, barb-tipped spears, like ceremonial harpoons, and their golden armour was worked in mimicry of the spirals that surrounded Ignorant Men.
The guards remained motionless as the phraters flooded into Seleucus’s chamber and Alzen barged his way to the front of the crowd, keen to speak with the Old King.
The room was built of the same glass architecture as the rest of the building and diamonds of light splashed across every surface, making it hard to see clearly. It was another octagonal room, but there was no dome, just a low, undulating ceiling of glass planes that gave the impression of water, seen from beneath, shimmering in the light of mandrel-fires that lined the walls. The room was cool and dimly lit and Alzen had the strange sense he was beneath the waves of a restless sea.
Seleucus was seated on a throne at the far end of the long, oval room. In this gloomy, low-ceilinged chamber he looked even more impressive, like a god of the deep, slouched in his abyssal throne, his armour blinking and glittering in the playful light. His lion was at his side and his staff of office lay across his lap. He was paying no attention to the worthies who were gathering before him, listening intently to one of his attendants, an ancient, wraith-thin laborator called Visalta who had served the Elect for as long as Alzen could remember.
Visalta was leaning close to the throne, whispering urgently into Seleucus’s ear. The confusing light refracted through the ceiling combined with the wire mesh around the Old King’s face to give the impression that the metal was moving, sna
rling and leering in response to whatever the laborator was telling him.
“Alzen,” whispered Phrater Ostan, fighting his way through the crowd.
Alzen nodded and waved him over.
Ostan had removed his helmet and looked even more panicked than he had in the slums.
“What is it?” he hissed, stooping to let Ostan speak in his ear.
“The weapons are in the city!” whispered Ostan.
“Weapons?”
“The weapons stolen from Phrater Herbrus. They’re here, in Athanor. They’re being used by the gangs in the Botanical Quarter.”
Alzen kept his expression blank. “How can anyone know that?”
“They bear the same marks. And they’re unmistakable anyway.” Ostan shook his head. “Do you realize what this means? The weapons weren’t stolen by savages from Brauron. They were taken by someone in the city and brought back somehow.” He spoke more quietly. “They were not stolen by natural means. It was alchymia. Whoever was behind the murders in the warehouse and Bethsan Palace was involved in this too.”
“Not necessarily. Perhaps the headhunters have some kind of primitive magic of their own. That would explain Phrater Herbrus being killed. He was a powerful practitioner of the Art. It seems strange that even a large army of savages could have overwhelmed him.”
Ostan nodded vaguely but looked unconvinced, still grimacing. He was about to speak when the Old King addressed the gathering.
“My brothers,” he said, spilling coils of smoke from his mask. “For long centuries, we have been free to focus on our studies, safe in our temples. Safe in the knowledge that our brave legions of hiramites will safeguard each new conjunction.” He paused, looking at the light playing across his armour, shaking his head. “But now the unthinkable has happened. One of our own, a member of this court, has been killed.”
There was an explosion of gasps and whispers. Clearly, many of the phraters had not heard the news until this moment.