The Legion of Flame (The Draconis Memoria)

by Anthony Ryan

  “You came here to rescue a man who died one hundred and forty years ago,” Tinkerer informed her, the beam flicking away from the corpse to illuminate her face. “What led you to the conclusion he could still be alive?”

  “Take the light away from my eyes or I’ll kill you,” Lizanne commanded, gaze narrowed through the lamp’s glare.

  He lowered the beam and stood in silent expectation as she looked again at the now-shadowed corpse. “I am to believe that this is the Artisan?” she enquired.

  “Your beliefs are a matter for you,” he replied. “I state only facts.”

  She stepped past him and crouched next to the skeleton, eyes roaming the bones and the skull. The teeth were certainly those of an old man, many having decayed to stumps in his lifetime, the front incisors featuring the dark stains that told of an over-fondness for coffee. So this was your fate? she asked it, peering into the black holes of the skull’s vacant eye sockets. Decades spent in adventure and invention only to die chained to a mine wall in the worst place in the empire.

  “What proof do you have that this is truly him?” she asked.

  “Memory,” Tinkerer replied.

  “Of what?”

  “Of his days in Arradsia. Of his many discoveries and the devices he crafted with the knowledge. Of the women he loved and the men he hated. Of what he saw beneath the mountain. Of the voice that called to him for most of his days and drove him to madness. Of the day he chained himself to this wall lest he succumb to the voice. The memories stop then.”

  Lizanne rose slowly, her gaze fixed on Tinkerer’s placid mask of a face. “How?”

  “Via the Blue-trance,” he answered.

  “You are a Blood-blessed?”

  “As are you.”

  She ignored the statement and nodded at the corpse. “He died long before you were born. How could you have tranced with him?”

  “I didn’t.” He trained the lamp’s beam on the least desiccated corpse, the one she had glimpsed on first entering the chamber. “I tranced with him. He”—the beam moved on to the next corpse—“tranced with her. She”—the beam moved on again—“tranced with . . .”

  “I comprehend your meaning,” she broke in. “However, I have difficulty believing it.”

  “There is no other credible explanation. Failure to accept a conclusion supported by evidence is a fundamentally irrational position and indicative of mental instability.”

  “Has anyone, perchance, ever punched you very hard in the face?”

  He blinked. “Only Melina. The day she left to join the Furies.”

  “I trust it hurt a great deal.”

  She moved back from him, wandering the chamber and searching for some clue that would either disprove or confirm his assertions. The idea that the Artisan might still be alive seemed outlandish to the point of embarrassment now. However, the notion that his memories could have been passed down through generations of Blood-blessed, all of whom had somehow fetched up in Scorazin, seemed scarcely more credible.

  “You said you shared the memory of his inventions,” she said after a long moment of consideration. “He once designed a solargraph. Describe it.”

  “A refinement of the sonic trigger he developed several years earlier, itself based on a design etched into a stone tablet he unearthed in a cave dwelling on the west Arradsian coast. The primary mechanism consisted of three cogs arranged so as to mirror the orbits of the three moons . . .”

  “And the sketch I showed you?” Lizanne interrupted.

  “A navigable aerostat. It was mostly his own invention but inspired by calculations he found in a tomb on the shore of the Upper Torquil Sea, which related to the lifting properties of hydrogen gas.”

  “Did he pen that sketch?”

  “No.” Tinkerer pointed to the most recently deceased occupant once more. “He did, among many others. He had developed an addiction to alcohol and would trade his drawings to the guards for wine. His memories are unpleasant to experience. I believe the sensation is referred to as bitterness.”

  “And it was he who passed the memories to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Meaning he must have had a supply of Blue.”

  “He did, and expended it in his final trance with me. Subsequently, he embarked upon a prolonged period of indulgence that I believe to have been the principal cause of his death.”

  Lizanne began to voice another question but it was Tinkerer’s turn to interrupt. “You stated you could effect an escape from this place,” he said. “How?”

  “I need to know you’re worth the trouble first,” she replied. “And this”—she gestured at the surrounding bodies—“raises far too many questions for my liking. How did so many Blood-blessed come to be here?”

  “Information loses its value once shared.” Tinkerer’s voice was as flat as ever, but Lizanne detected a glimmer of hard resolve in his gaze. “I deduce that you are an agent sent by a corporate entity to retrieve the figure known to history as the Mad Artisan. He, as you can see, is dead and all that remains of his mind now resides in me. If you want it, you will extricate me from this city.”

  “Keen to see the outside world, are you?”

  “I believe there will be much of interest there. Also, the environment is likely to be more conducive to longevity.”

  “Then you may find it a disappointment,” Lizanne muttered as images of Carvenport’s fall flicked through her head. “There is a war,” she added, “only just begun, but, I believe will grow to terrible proportions before long.” She nodded at the Artisan’s skeleton. “If you hold his memories, then you must know of the White Drake.”

  For the first time Tinkerer betrayed some true discomfort, a faint shudder running through his body, though his features remained impassive.

  “I see that you do,” Lizanne said, stepping closer. “Then you might be interested to know that it’s awake, and very hungry.”

  Tinkerer stared at her in silence for some time, a slight frown on his brow and eyes taking on an unfocused cast. Lizanne thought he might be about to fall into some kind of seizure before understanding dawned. He’s calculating.

  “You came here in search of knowledge that might aid in its defeat,” Tinkerer said finally. “I believe I have such knowledge. You already know the price.”

  She briefly considered trying to coerce more information from him, but knew it would be counter-productive, if not dangerous. Besides, anything he shared now would be of little use if she couldn’t get them both out of the city.

  “Very well,” she said, turning and gesturing at the exit. “If you’d care to show me out, I’ll begin preparations.”

  “And what is the nature of these preparations?”

  “I shall need to make use of your skills, for a start.”

  “In what manner?”

  Lizanne voiced a humourless laugh. Vile as this place was, she had a suspicion that the fate she was about to orchestrate for Scorazin might weigh on her conscience for some time to come. “Suffice to say, I intend to rekindle the flame of revolution.”

  • • •

  “What is the true definition of money?” the man on her left demanded.

  Lizanne supplied the required quote with only a slight pause for recollection, it being one of Bidrosin’s better known pieces of naïvety. “‘Money is best thought of as a shared delusion. An unspoken fraudulent compact between the rich and the poor ascribing value to worthless tokens in return for the illusion of societal security.’”

  “Who commanded your cell in Corvus?” the woman on the right asked.

  Lizanne sat on a chair facing a blank cellar wall, both her interrogators standing just outside her field of vision. They alternated, the man quizzing her on revolutionary dogma whilst the woman barked out more specific questions regarding Lizanne’s fictional career as an insurgent. It was a sub
tler technique than that employed by Electress Atalina, however Lizanne suspected the Learned Damned weren’t above resorting to more direct methods should she prove unconvincing.

  She had eschewed a more contrived approach for simply walking up to the house they occupied. It stood at the western fringe of Apple Blossom Park, a three-storey mansion which, according to Makario, had been the residence of the city’s richest mine-owner in the days before the Emperor chose Scorazin as his principal prison. Two young men moved to confront her before she could ascend the steps to the front door. A brief enquiry regarding the presence of any fellow members of the Correspondent Brotherhood had been enough to see her swiftly, and none-too-gently, conveyed to this cellar.

  “I only knew him as Severil, he knew me as Valina,” Lizanne replied, two names she had plucked from Hyran’s head during their only trance, along with a wealth of intelligence on the Brotherhood the young Blood-blessed probably didn’t know he had retained. “He’s dead now,” she added. “The Cadre paraded him in front of me before blowing his brains out. It happened in a cellar much like this one, actually.”

  “Just answer the question,” the woman snapped. “Don’t elaborate.”

  “What differentiates the peasant from the manufactory worker?” the man asked.

  A trick question, and easily spotted. “‘Only one’s prejudice towards the other. In all other respects peasant and worker are essentially the same, only distinguished from one another by the methods utilised in their exploitation and enslavement.’”

  There was a short pause before the woman asked her next question and Lizanne detected a partially suppressed reluctance in her tone. “What secrets did you betray in return for your life?”

  She saw the trap in this question too. The impulse would be to proclaim her unwavering loyalty to the cause and eternal hatred of all traitors and informants. But they would know it a lie instantly, for no revolutionary could survive the Cadre’s ministrations without talking, even if the only reward was to live out one’s years in this miserable pit.

  “Much the same as you, I imagine,” she replied. “I gave them the names of my surviving cell members, and told them of the unlicensed printing-press in my father’s basement. They killed him in front of me too.”

  The answer heralded a long silence, presumably as they reflected on their own betrayals. “Why are you here?” the man asked, a resentful edge to his tone. No one liked to be reminded of their weakness, after all.

  “Electress Atalina sent me to spy on you,” Lizanne said. “She suspects you may have aided in the recent attempt on her life.”

  She could sense the glance they exchanged and found she had to conceal a grin. Unexpected truth was often an effective tactic. “As for myself,” she went on, “I couldn’t care less if you cut the old cow’s head off with a rusty saw. I am here on different business.”

  Lizanne felt the chill kiss of steel on her neck as the woman leaned close to whisper in her ear, “It would be wise for us to simply kill you now.”

  “Then you would be denying yourselves an opportunity such wretched souls as us are rarely afforded.”

  The knife pressed deeper then stopped as the man spoke again, “What opportunity?”

  This time Lizanne allowed herself a smile. “Redemption, citizen. I believe the destruction of the Emperor’s greatest prison would be a potent symbol. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  • • •

  The woman’s name was Helina, the man’s Demisol. She was short, the top of her head barely cresting five feet, whilst he was tall and rake thin. They would have made for a comical pairing in other circumstances. However, at this juncture they appeared to be what they were, two jaded but undeniably dangerous people, made lean and hollow-eyed by a restricted diet. Lizanne took solace from the faint glimmer of lingering idealism she saw in their gaze. They would be of little use had their revolutionary fervour not survived the rigours of life within these walls.

  “You’re insane,” Helina said after Lizanne had laid out her plan.

  She sat opposite them on the other side of a broad mahogany dining-table that she assumed had been a prized possession of this house’s original owner. The surface, which would once have gleamed with layers of polish, was now scarred from end to end by radical invective, quotes from Bidrosin and other ideologues etched deep into the wood as if in mockery of the servants who had once laboured to make it shine.

  “Your little group seems to have a passion for defacement,” Lizanne observed, running a hand over the table’s coarsened surface.

  “Thousands died in this place even before the Emperor made it a prison,” Demisol said. “Toiling in the pits for a pittance and sucking poison into their lungs whilst their employer gorged himself at this table for years on end.” He leaned forward to plant a finger on the table, running it over a list of scratched names. “Here, the names of the dozen workers he bribed the constabulary to hang when they tried to organise a union. Here”—his finger moved to another list—“the leaders of the uprising that killed the pig. They quartered his body and threw it in the sulphur pit.”

  “A fitting end,” Lizanne said. “But, if my history is correct, the uprising ended in utter defeat, as well as provoking the Emperor into throwing a wall around the city and using it as a cesspit for the empire’s worst scum.”

  “The Scorazin Uprising inspired the First Revolution,” Demisol replied, flattening his hand to the table. “We do what we can to honour that memory, small gesture though it is.”

  More than just a glimmer, Lizanne thought, hearing the quiver of conviction in the man’s voice. All to the good.

  “I do not mock, citizen,” she told him, stripping all traces of humour from her voice to lean forward, hands clasped together and meeting his gaze with grave intent. “My plan offers only a small prospect of escape, but will almost certainly result in the death of any who take part, and many who don’t. But, if done correctly, perhaps we can once again light a fire that will spread throughout the empire. I was in Corvus not long before they brought me here. Riots were raging. The Emperor’s failed war against the Corporatists has stoked the people’s anger. The lives of so many sons spent on a madman’s reckless gamble. Grief and rage will be the fuel for our fire.”

  Demisol closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deep, and Lizanne knew his lifelong passion for rebellion was at war with his reason. Finally, he turned to Helina, speaking softly, “Long have we sought such an opportunity.”

  “For escape,” the woman replied, gaze dark as she stared at Lizanne. “Not suicide.”

  “By remaining here you are already committing suicide,” Lizanne replied. “Just very slowly. I, for one, am not prepared to spend what years I have left stewing in this mire. We all have our ledgers to balance, do we not?”

  Helina blinked and bit down on a retort as the words struck home. Her earlier reluctance in voicing the question of betrayal had revealed much about the depth of her own guilt.

  “Your scheme has many variables,” she said. “Much that could go wrong.”

  “Complexity will work to our advantage,” Lizanne returned. “If one facet should be revealed it would take a mind of genius to work out the rest.”

  “The Coal King and the Electress are far from stupid,” Demisol pointed out. “And Chuckling Sim is cleverer than both.”

  “Fortunate then that they are preoccupied with other matters. The attempt on the Electress’s life, in particular.” Lizanne leaned back, regarding them both in steady expectation.

  “We will talk with our fellow citizens,” Demisol said after another prolonged exchange of glances with Helina. “A vote must be taken. I expect the discussion will be . . . lengthy. Although most of us were Co-respondents, our group includes four Republicists, two Neo-Egalitarians and a Holy Leveller, amongst others, all of whom would happily have killed each other in the days following the collapse of the revolutio
n. Old rivalries are normally set aside amongst the Learned Damned, but not forgotten. This scheme will be sure to reawaken previous grievances.”

  “And the risk of betrayal,” Helina added. “Any fervent dissenters will have to be dealt with.”

  “And assurances provided,” Demisol said, turning back to Lizanne. “Proof confirming the truthfulness of your intent. Remember, we do not know you. For all we know the Cadre sent you here.”

  “For what?” Lizanne enquired, a question which heralded another silence. “I’d best leave you to your discussions,” she said, getting to her feet. “I’ll return tomorrow with the proof you require. In the meantime, I shall inform the Electress that I have gained your trust and, whilst I could discern nothing that would confirm your involvement in the attempt on her life, I suspect there may be more to find. It would help if I had some small morsel of intelligence to share. It doesn’t have to be true. As I say, I don’t care if you tried to kill her or not.”

  “We didn’t,” Demisol replied. He paused then inclined his head at Helina. “Tell her.”

  “We were approached,” the woman said, tone sullen with guarded reluctance. “Four months ago. A discreet and carefully oblique enquiry regarding any bomb-making expertise we might possess. The inquirer was sent on his way with a very clear warning not to return. This group has a strict policy of non-involvement with the various power struggles within these walls.”

  “The Coal King or one of his creatures, presumably,” Lizanne said.

  The woman responded with the first smile Lizanne had seen on her face, a smug little twist of the lips stirred by the pleasure of possessing superior knowledge. “Actually, no. It was the pianola-playing fop from that whore-house you call home.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Sirus

  Majack died first, a bullet buzzing by Sirus’s head to shatter the former soldier’s remade features just as he jumped from the barge. He sagged into the water like a stringless marionette, his blood staining the surf red. Within seconds another volley of rifle fire came from the dark mass of trees beyond the beach. Sirus flinched as the bullets raised geysers from the surrounding water, felling three more of his company. He sent out a harsh thought-command to stem the sudden upsurge of confusion amongst his fellow Spoiled. Although their transformation made them resistant to panic, even the White’s influence couldn’t banish an instinctive fear of death. Their reaction was heightened by the shock of such unexpectedly fierce opposition. Their victories to date had often been hard-fought, but truly never in doubt, aided in no small part by the fact that so few Islanders possessed fire-arms. The tribe inhabiting this island, however, were clearly different. It was the largest and most populous island they had yet attacked. Its name translated from the local dialect as the Cradle of Fire, presumably due to the huge volcano that rose from the centre of the tree-covered land-mass. Thanks to their recent recruits, Sirus also knew it had earned another name in recent years: Kahlanah Dassan, the King’s Cradle.