Kata could not bear the high whine of the saw or the wet thump of the minotaur’s flesh, so she walked down the stairs.
As Rudé followed her, he called back: “Don’t damage the eyes. Our thaumaturgists need those eyes for their preparations. Don’t get anything in the eyes.” He followed Kata into the room and said, “One more, Kata, and your debt will be repaid. Think about that. Think about how hard you’ve worked. Just one more minotaur.”
“Even if I repay the debt, I’ll never be free of you. None of us ever will. It doesn’t matter which House, you’re all the same.”
Rudé threw his head back and laughed. “Kata, remember, without us you’d still be on the street. Remember who this building belongs to.”
From above, she could still hear the sickening sound of meat and bone being cut to pieces. When they left, she suddenly felt her legs and back. She looked down at her blood-covered shins, pieces of skin scraped into ridges near her ankles. The adrenalin had long ago left her and now all she could feel was pain.
Two nights later, Kata watched the Sun Parade, celebrating the moment four hundred years earlier when the sun had broken through the fog and Saliras’ forces had been routed by the minotaurs and the Caeli-Amurians together. The parade descended from the top of the cliffs toward the public square by the piers. Figures walked with hideous masks: distorted faces that looked as if they had melted in great heat, goats with gigantic eyes and too-thin faces, and, of course, bulls. Others played thin, high-pitched flutes or circular drums that fit beneath their arms and could be squeezed to change the note. All were dressed outrageously in oranges, reds, yellows. Crowds watched from the side of the road, clapping at the leering masks. Scattered among them were the minotaurs.
Kata glanced at the crowd. On the other side of the road stood the smaller and darker minotaur she had met at the bar. She emptied the acrid medicine from her flask, gagging as she swallowed it. It was the last of the preparation. When she had finished the job, she would be able to afford more. She had spent most of her remaining money at the markets, buying deadly herbs. From these she had prepared poison, mixing it with the flagon of wine, which she then placed in her cupboard. She could not risk another fight: who would have believed anyone could be as strong as Cyriacus, to take so much physical punishment?
She had enough poison for ten men. That should be enough.
She scuttled gingerly through a break in the parade. Her shins were still scabby and bruised.
“Hello,” she said to the minotaur.
“Ah,” he said, “the woman who can hold her own. And did you?”
She smiled. His eyes did not seem so terrible this time; they seemed to be laughing. “I always hold my own.”
“I see. I’m Aemilius.”
“Kata,” she said. “You’re not marching in the parade.”
He shrugged and looked to the sky. “Look at the moon. Can you see Aya’s handprints, side by side, from when he threw it into the sky?”
“It’s bright, isn’t it?”
“So bright that on a clear and calm night like this, you can see the sunken city through the crystal water.”
“No.” Kata frowned in disbelief.
“I swear. Would you like to see?”
She hesitated. She should take this chance. It was falling into her lap. “Yes.”
They marched together up to the great steam towers, full of the thumping and clattering that powered the cable car from the top of the cliff to the pier. There were too many people on the streets, and the walk would have been a long one. They stepped into the cable car, which filled with white-haired people with pointy beards or shawls or aging, curved backs.
As they swung over the city, looking at the parade winding below like a cascade of lights, Kata noticed the passengers in the carriage kept away from Aemilius. She recognised their wide-eyed apprehension.
“You realize the effect you have on those around you,” she whispered to him.
“Of course.” Aemilius did not look about: to do so would be undignified.
“You have a strange bearing; you hold yourself apart somehow.”
“And you,” he said. “You do also.”
She looked away from him, down at the street-trams caught in the traffic below. She could think of nothing more to say.
They reached the quay, with its nine piers jutting into a glassy, silent ocean, the moon hovering above, lighting a section of it in one silvery molten band. Aemilius paid a boatman and took a rowboat.
“It’s too far,” she said. “We need a steamer.”
“It’s not too far. Get in.”
She hesitated, then stepped onto the dark wooden planks of the boat.
Aemilius rowed away from the city, over the glassy ocean, the oars making satisfying creaks against the wooden oarlocks and subtle splashes as they entered the water. They were silent as they left the city far behind; they could still hear the laughter and the pipes and drums of the festival floating over the water.
“Look,” said Aemilius after some time.
Kata peered over the edge of the boat and put her hand to her chest in astonishment. “You can see it, you can really see it.”
Beneath them the sunken city shimmered silvery white. Buildings and boulevards came suddenly into focus and then blurred again as the water moved quietly beneath them.
“The entire city was once white marble,” said Aemilius. “I walked those streets when I was young. I watched white-caparisoned horses pull crow-black carriages. I watched street-officers lighting gas lamps on hot summer nights as lovers drifted through the wide streets.”
“How old are you?” asked Kata.
“Five hundred and twelve.”
Kata drew a long, quiet breath. So old. Eventually she said, “There is a sadness about you.”
“Look,” he said. “Can you see something moving down there? They say there are still sea-serpents with heads like houses, bodies big as Numerian caravans.”
“There are,” she said. “I’ve seen them. They come closer to land during the winter.” She caught a glimpse of something snaking its way through the sunken city’s streets. It seemed to warp in and out of existence. A chill ran down her spine. Should it surface, their rowboat would capsize and the serpent would swallow them whole.
“Perhaps we should head back,” she said.
Again, Kata led a minotaur up the cobblestoned alleyway to her house. Again the creature came in without encouragement, looking around her parlour with interest. He stopped at the bookshelf holding the few philosophical classics she could afford: Marka’s Unintentional Action and Ugesio’s Morality and Madness, the two most popular texts.
“You taught yourself philosophy?” he said.
“A little.”
“This book Unintentional Action, what does it argue?”
“Ah, one of the new philosophers. Marka argues we only have the illusion of choice, the illusion of free will. He says that we are controlled by our past, by our surroundings, that we are forced into certain actions.” The streets where Kata lived as a child, the death of her mother, flashed into her mind, as did her desperate and ongoing desire to escape them, to escape the memory of them.
“And what do you think?” Aemilius asked.
“I think he’s right. We are all forced to do things we’d rather not, to compromise.”
“But is it not possible that our very knowledge of those forces allows us some measure of freedom?”
Kata closed her eyes. “I don’t know. Sometimes I don’t even know where I am.”
“The ancients said that everything has its place,” said Aemilius. “Everything finds its place.”
“Those days have passed.”
“Perhaps.”
“Would you like a drink?” She felt a knot in her stomach and tried to swallow, her throat dry with fear. Nausea began to build up in her body. Her little finger twitched for a moment and was still. Oh no, she thought, not now. She fought the rising sickness back.
&nbs
p; “Yes,” he said.
She walked to her small kitchen, took the flagon of wine, two cups, and placed them on the bench. She stared at them.
“You have no windows in this room?”
“It’s hemmed in on all sides. Above, there is a balcony.”
“It is a sparse house. Not much comfort here.”
“As much comfort as I need. I fought for this place. I struggled for it. Even now it is not yet mine.” She stared at the flagon. She should pour the cups, but she could not. Nausea rose again in her body. Oh no, she thought. Quickly. She unstopped the flagon but set it down again on the bench before she dropped it. Her legs gave way beneath her and her body shook violently, as if her legs and arms were driven by an engine. She gurgled as the fit came on. Aemilius was above her, grasping her shoulder.
“Kata, can you hear me?” He grasped her hand. “Squeeze my hand. Try to squeeze my hand.”
Though her body shook and spasmed, she was aware of his presence above her. He held her hand and her shoulder and he comforted her. Though his voice faded away, as if down a long corridor, she was not entirely alone.
When the fit was over, she felt as if she had been wrung like a wet piece of clothing, twisted and distorted and empty. Aemilius carried her upstairs to her bed and laid her down.
“You will be all right now,” he said. “But you must sleep.”
Kata closed her eyes and opened them again. Aemilius was sniffing the air and looking around curiously.
Exhausted, Kata closed her eyes again. She drifted off to the sight of him sitting above her, his deep eyes impassive, occasionally closing as he looked down on her. When she woke he was gone.
Rudé let himself in during the afternoon, as she lay on her cushions in the corner of the room, still exhausted from the fit. It took her a day to recover, at least, and now that she had run out of the preparation that eased her condition, her body would remain tired and drawn.
“This is my house,” she said to Rudé, lifting her head with effort. “You can’t just come in here.”
“But I can,” he said, holding up his key, straightening his sharp-lined clothes. “And I will.”
“I need money, for medicine.”
“Do you now? The agreement was two minotaurs. Not one.”
“I need an advance.”
“I see. Well, don’t ever claim that House Technis is not generous, that it doesn’t look after its own.” He carefully placed a pile of ten florens on the table, stacked like a little tower. “By the end of the Festival, yes?”
“Yes.”
There was a knock on the door. Rudé, his wiry little body always full of quick movements, darted against the wall for protection. Officiates lived always in fear, even though the vicious war between House Arbor and House Technis had recently fallen into a lull. They worked at the most vulnerable level, out on the streets, meeting their agents and assassins face to face. They were powerful enough to be targeted, but not high enough in the house hierarchy to warrant protection.
“Get the door,” Rudé said, pulling out a long-knife from underneath his jacket.
Kata pushed herself to her feet and wearily opened the door. Aemilius stood towering beyond it.
“Come in.”
“I came to see if you were feeling better.”
“I am, thank you.”
“Well, look,” said Rudé, smiling slightly, the knife hidden. “A minotaur. Fantastic...Let me see. But you’re a little small for a minotaur, aren’t you?”
“Is greatness measured by size?” asked Aemilius.
Rudé approached Aemilius, looking even smaller as he came close to the minotaur. “Incredible.”
“A friend of yours?” Aemilius asked Kata.
“Oh,” said Rudé, “I’ve known Kata since she was just a girl. I’ve seen her...grow up.”
Aemilius nodded, as if thinking.
“I’d better go,” said Rudé, grinning quickly. “There are things to do! But I should very much like to see you again, minotaur. I should very much like to talk to you.”
“Perhaps you shall,” said Aemilius as Rudé closed the door behind him. “Strange,” he said to Kata, “is he a New-Man, with all that quick energy?”
“He is half-Anlusian,” said Kata, swaying slightly on her feet. “You can see it in his actions, his movements...his ambition.”
“I have never been to Anlusia, but I should very much like to see it. They say the New-Men are voracious, insatiable, that they take everything they can and destroy it to rebuild it. They say their city is constantly growing, constantly changing.”
“But is that any way to live? Isn’t that just distracting yourself from who you are, by concentrating solely on what you do, what you have?” She pursed her lips and thought of the time she’d spent on the streets, of her desire to own her house.
“Of course. And for that reason I should like to see it. To watch the New-Men build their technical wonders, only to throw them away.”
Kata shuffled to the kitchen. The flagon was where she left it. “Would you like some wine? We didn’t have a chance last night.”
“No. I have someone to meet. Thank you, though.”
Kata breathed a sigh of relief. She was not well enough today. She returned the flagon to the cupboard and walked him to the door.
“Rest,” Aemilius said.
“I will.”
She closed the door behind him and collapsed onto the cushions in the corner. She would kill him, or perhaps another minotaur, tomorrow. But even as she thought it, her mind was filled with doubt.
Kata bought her medicine the next day at the market, with the money Rudé had given her. As she drank the preparation, she felt strength grow in her limbs.
She searched for a minotaur, but every time she found one, something stood in her way. First there were too many of them, gathered in the steam baths on the northern peninsula of the city, with no way of isolating one. Another simply ignored her when she approached him in a café. A third, telling stories of the Numerian Wars and Saliras’ assault on the city, was surrounded by wide-eyed young women, their hands reaching out to touch him. Yet others laughed and played games with sticks and bone dice with old men and women. The citizens had grown more comfortable with the presence of the minotaurs.
With each failure she felt the sickly feeling of dread creeping into her. Desperation made everything seem out of focus. Her eyes flitted from one person to another.
Slowly she made her way up the white cliffs on foot. Finally she scaled the winding stair that hugged the cliff like a mountain-goat trail, doubling back on itself dangerously, at places so steep as to be almost a ladder. Eventually she reached the Artists’ Square, jutting from the cliff like a great sandy disc. Painters with their easels were dotted between tables where men with braided hair and spectacles drank green tea. There she found Aemilius playing chess with another minotaur.
Kata sat next to them and looked over the city below. It was beautiful, despite the smoke that rose constantly from the factories. The city was silent; only the sound of the artists’ voices could be heard, rustling on the wind.
“This is Kata, Dexion,” said Aemilius.
“You have a new friend already?” said Dexion, whose hair was light and sandy. His hands were smooth and young.
“I do,” said Aemilius, looking at Kata.
“You old ones, you never surprise me with your cunning,” said Dexion.
“No,” said Aemilius, “nothing like that.”
“Oh no. Nothing like that,” said Dexion, laughing also. “Actually, I remember seeing her with Cyriacus. You know, no one’s seen him in days. There are rumours...rumours of abductions, of a black market.”
“Rumours don’t stand for the truth. He’ll be around,” said Aemilius, looking across to Kata.
Kata felt her stomach tense but kept her face impassive.
Dexion nodded and said, “I’ll leave you two to your...friendship then.”
“But our game?”
“You’re only leaving because I have the upper hand.”
But Dexion was already walking away across the square, looking around happily.
“The city is beautiful from the square,” she said.
“Look at the smoke though, poisoning the air.”
“I grew up on the streets around those factories. I learned to love the dirty alleyways, the grime-covered walls.”
“Yes,” he said, “there’s energy in the new technologies. Many possibilities. Many choices.”
They sat in the afternoon sun, watching the painters around them try to capture the scene just so, in their very own ways, and talked. Aemilius had been born on Aya. Like all minotaurs he had burst forth from rock full of mighty rage, clamouring for knowledge and adventure. He had sailed on sleek longboats, travelled the deserts of Numeria, studied now-lost texts such as Sumi’s Necromancy and Agency in the ancient library of the sunken city.
Kata tried to keep the conversation focussed on Aemilius, but eventually he asked her about herself.
“My mother died of the contagion when I was a child,” she replied. “She had worked the factories for House Technis. I remember her hands were knobbly from the spinning wheels. When you held one, you could feel the calluses and where there had been breaks. But you know what the Cajiun philosophers say, ‘One must pass straight through pain—to attempt to avoid it is to warp your life, to cripple yourself.’”
“It intrigues me that you would know such philosophy. I thought it was out of fashion,” said Aemilius.
“It is, among the House philosophers. But many of the philosopher-assassins still contemplate it. Many who still live on the margins, or who, like me, grew up on the streets.”
He looked over at her curiously before taking her hand in his own rough fingers. “And you have raised yourself up. Look at you now: a real citizen of the city, free, capable.”
“Come,” she said, “let’s go.”
She took him back down the staircase, the wind picking up to buffet away their talk. And then down through the streets that grew in size, where children laughed and ran barefoot between houses and old men sat silently on stools by the front doors of their square, blocklike cottages.
The Library of Forgotten Books Page 11