In the southern wing, Ejan stood behind his desk, a map before him. He had adorned one of the walls with even more weapons: pikes and rapiers, blue-and-red assassins’ scarves, throwing stars, rope darts, and other paraphernalia of death. In the corner, a fire burned, warming the room against the outside cold.
“Ejan, I must—” She stopped herself. On one side of the room, looking out at the pedestrians on Via Attica, stood Dumas, the leader of Collegium Caelian.
Dumas turned around and stared at her, the pink insides of his lower lids dragged down by his heavy cheeks. Two points of red emerged on Ejan’s face.
“Ejan, I’ve heard there’s a man claiming to be Maximilian in the dungeons of Arbor,” said Kata.
The spots of red disappeared from Ejan’s cheeks, and he regained his icy complexion. “According to Georges, the man’s an impostor, a criminal attempting to save himself.”
“Ah, Maximilian, I remember him,” said Dumas. “Young idealist, from what I remember. Hotheaded. Filled with ideas. Ideas—what attracts you so much about them? Life is a practical affair, don’t you think?”
Ejan sat on a chair and kicked his feet up onto the desk, an unconvincing show that all was well. “Alas, we’re on the opposite sides of things there. Ideas are all we have. All the rest are but base and material delusions. You won’t take your goods when you go, Dumas.”
“And you won’t take your ideas, either.” Dumas grinned.
“Kata here agrees with me, don’t you?” said Ejan.
Kata was still trying to connect the disparate information in her mind. “Yes.”
Ejan sat up again, rolled the map up on his table. “Delicate things, these maps. I like delicate things, you know: flowers, vulnerable people. There’s something tragic about a flower, don’t you think? The way it only lasts for a short time. Mortality. That’s what gets to me the most.”
“I was just at the Arena,” said Kata. “You’d have trouble there, Ejan.”
“Oh, I don’t think he’d have trouble at all,” said Dumas. “He’d celebrate the fights, if they were for the right idea.”
“Can you organize them for the right idea, then?” said Ejan. “But that wouldn’t bring in enough money, would it? You prefer to put on spectacles like—what was it today, Kata?”
“A reenactment of the battle against Saliras,” Kata said. “Caelian is organizing the fight season?”
In the corner, the log collapsed on itself, and the fire died a little. Dumas wandered over to it and stared into the embers for a moment before turning his back to the fireplace. Various expressions crossed his face, coming in rapid succession. Kata could only read one, a kind of resentment.
“Yes, since the Houses are gone…” Dumas held both hands palms up, as if to say, Who else will organize them?
Pieces were coming together in Kata’s mind. Dumas was organizing the fights at the Arena. He was the one who had written to Armand, she thought. The letter had claimed he would have something ready by the Twilight Observance, which would be the finale of the gladiator games. Snatches of a conversation with Dexion came back to her now. The Collegia have really thrown their weight behind the games.… They’re recruiting and training cohorts of fighters, the minotaur had said. There was evidence Dumas had been involved in smuggling funds from the Marin treasury. A question bubbled up in her mind: Was this money being used to recruit a gladiator army? The Collegia had chosen a replica of the battle against Saliras as their first spectacular: a perfect training ground for city fighting. She remembered Dexion saying something else: And those who survive are to be promoted to gladiator captains! She sprang for a new conclusion: this was the meaning of the letter, in which the mysterious D had written, Our best plan should be realized by the Twilight Observance.
And here was Dumas, free as a spear-bird circling the sky, fraternizing with Ejan. Why hadn’t Ejan moved against him? Ejan, who was usually so decisive, so rigid and unbending, not one to compromise? She looked around at the weapons on the wall, including the assassins’ scarves: some red, others blue. Weighted blue scarves like those used by philosopher-assassins connected with the secretive Arcadi sect. Weighted blue scarves like the one that had been used to kill Aceline. Kata felt suddenly afraid: she was in the presence of enemies. Maybe Maximilian was alive. If so, she would need a force of her own to save him from the Arbor Dungeons.
She muttered some excuses to the two men and left as quickly as she could. All the time she felt their hostile eyes on her.
THIRTY-TWO
Kata dashed along the corridors of the Technis Palace, skipping past other moderates carrying foodstuffs and weapons, avoiding those calling out messages to one another, and ducking past the little circles and congregations deep in discussion. Pneumatiques above had begun to whir through the air again, though others were broken and still hung like ruined lamps.
As she headed for the meeting room that had been set up as a center for the captains she had been training, an arm shot out from one side, grasped her. Twisting rapidly, she prepared to strike out. A familiar young man cowered before her. It took a moment to place him: it was Oewen, one of Max’s old followers. Oewen had disappeared with his lover, Ariana, before the overthrow. That wasn’t unusual. Militants came and went, Kata had learned. The revolution was a great devourer of people.
“Oewen? I thought you were gone from the movement,” she said.
“I am, Kata. I am. But I’m here for Maximilian. Is there nothing that can be done?”
She felt the shock of certainty. Her voice quavered. “You’ve seen him in the Arbor dungeons?”
“Yes, I’ve seen him, but not in the dungeons, though. I saw him in a prison cart on the way to the Standing Stones. He’s headed for the Bolt.”
Kata grabbed the man by the shirt. “The Bolt?”
The man nodded desperately.
Kata burst into a run. Her mind leaped from conclusion to conclusion. Ejan was the key. He stood to benefit from the death of Aceline; he was allied with Dumas; and now, through his henchman, Georges, he was allowing his enemies to be wiped out one by one.
She burst through the door and to where her captains were sitting, overlooking a map of the city. They looked up in unison.
“I need a force of two hundred guards—now!” she said. “Into the carriages and to the Standing Stones.”
If Ejan wanted a display of power, he was about to get one.
* * *
The carriages sped along Via Gracchia. Pedestrians dashed to the side to avoid the oncoming column. Sitting beside the driver of the first carriage, Kata felt the cold wind rushing across her face. They reached the Arantine and were caught behind a steam-tram. Kata cursed out loud. With each moment that passed, Maximilian would be closer to death.
The tram clattered as it turned a corner, and then they were past it, rushing along the Southern Headland. At the Thousand Stairs they careened to a halt, for the way was blocked by a crowd of spectators, newly arrived from the Arena and come to see more death.
Kata pointed ahead and shouted at the driver. “Straight through them!”
The driver pulled on the reins. “I can’t.”
Kata leaped from the carriage and waved at her captains. “Come on!”
They pushed their way through the screaming crowd. Someone shoved back, and Kata lashed out, struck something hard, plunged on.
She heard a great cheer from the Standing Stones, and her heart sank. A round of hooting followed. Her mind filled with awful images. Then she was through, and into the open path between the wooden palisades. Crowds packed the terraces of the ampitheater. Collegia flags flapped in the cold wind.
Several dirty, downtrodden men looked out morosely from the bars of the prison cart. Maximilian was not among them. Bodies wrapped in sheets were piled up to one side of the Standing Stones. Despair clutched at Kata. Her eyes were drawn to the three Bolts standing on the dais. One was broken and unoccupied. In the second, a man’s shattered body was held upright by straps and
restraints. Kata did not recognize his square face. Beside him stood the final Bolt.
A vigilant guard struggled with the second body, momentarily obscuring Kata’s line of sight. As he dragged the corpse to one side, Kata glimpsed a mop of matted curly hair, then a dirty wiry beard, and between them, the large eyes of Maximilian looking out in shock. He was gagged but still very much alive.
“Mechanism’s broken. Same as the other one.” A vigilant inspected the Bolt housing Max. “Too much wear, I’d say. Third one will probably go soon.”
Maximilian’s eyes roved, locked on Kata, widened with hope.
Kata turned to the gray-suited force behind her. The crowd was hushed now. They watched the moderates, uncertain about the meaning of their arrival.
“We’re going to free him,” Kata said quietly to her captains.
She strode forward and became instantly aware of the black-suited vigilant guards surrounding the Standing Stones, pikes in hand. There were perhaps a hundred of them, many standing up from where they had watched the entertainment around the palisade. Her forces outnumbered the vigilants by almost two to one, but would they stand up in combat? There had been so little time to train them, even with Sarrat’s expertise.
The vigilant captain marched toward Kata. She had seen him before, pronouncing judgments, stirring the crowd to a fever pitch. “I don’t know who you are, but back away.”
Kata heard the sound of rapiers sliding from scabbards behind her. The determination in her tone surprised even her. “That man is the seditionist leader Maximilian. He has been wrongly imprisoned. We’re here to free him.”
“The tribunal says he is to be put to death.” The captain gestured dramatically at the crowd. “What do we think?”
“The Bolt! The Bolt!” the crowd howled. They didn’t like the idea of their entertainment being canceled. Kata wondered if, in the event of a clash, they would be prepared to join on the side of the vigilants.
“I am Kata, one of the moderate leaders. And I say he is to be freed. Who are you to oppose me?”
The executioner captain gestured to the crowd. “And so the moderates’ true views emerge. Like rats they are brought out into the light. They would have us abandon the Bolt, capitulate before our enemies without a fight.” He turned back to Kata. “Gutless, I say you are. Weak and indecisive. Let us do the real work of the revolution.”
Kata took two steps toward him. He looked at her curiously first, then blinked rapidly with realization as he reached up to the two knives Kata had plunged into his neck moments before. His eyes took on a somewhat plaintive look.
“Indecisive, you say?” whispered Kata into his ear as his legs gave way, leaving her gripping her two dripping daggers.
For a moment no one spoke or moved. Then the vigilants charged. The clash of steel rang out. Kata loosed one knife, which struck a vigilant between the ribs. He staggered back, a moderate guard already piercing him with a rapier. A pike arced waist height at Kata, and she leaped into the air, heard the sound as it wooshed beneath her. A second later her other knife drove up through the attacker’s jaw, pierced his palate, and lodged into his brain.
On all sides, her guards engaged the vigilants. Some were felled by pikes. Elsewhere they ducked and danced and fought at close range. It was not pretty to watch: their skills were rudimentary, but they were tougher than anyone the vigilants had ever faced. Once at close range, the action was short and decisive. One moment the battle was on. A second later the vigilants had broken and fled in all directions.
Kata leaped onto the platform, halted before Maximilian. Neither of them spoke for a moment. She was taken aback by his matted hair and scruffy beard, but there was still life in his eyes.
Kata cut the gag from his mouth. “I suppose we had better get you out of this, then,” said Kata.
Max took a breath. “If you insist.”
It took a moment before she could work out the strappings. Once he was free, she helped him back to the carriage. The crowd watched, confused. None called out. Then, suddenly, a great cheer went up. It seemed they’d had their entertainment after all.
“Where are we going?” asked Max.
“To the Technis Palace,” said Kata.
“I can’t seem to get away from that place,” said Max.
“None of us can,” said Kata.
“Why there?”
“We are preparing for civil war.”
“Against who?” said Max.
“Ejan,” said Kata.
Max nodded. “I see.”
* * *
Moderate leaders and activists flooded into the Technis Palace, carrying whatever they could, fear in their eyes. Across the city, moderates had fought a series of rearguard battles as they retreated to the Technis Complex. The moderate-controlled factories immediately went on strike; the vigilant ones made calls for restraint by all. Most of the factory committees called for unity, though the basis for this was fuzzy. Should the Bolt still function? Whose guards should be considered the real representatives of the citizenry?
Once back at Technis Palace, Elise stood before Kata, angry. “Olivier’s been taken hostage. So have most of the editors of the Dawn. They tried to escape the Opera, but Ejan moved too quickly. This is your fault, Kata.”
Kata ignored the complaints and raced to the balcony of the Director’s office, where she surveyed the city. Vigilant guards had begun to surround the Technis Complex, building barricades in nearby streets and squares. Their captains surveyed the scene: directions were given, defenses organized. The moderates were under siege.
Maximilian washed in one of the communal bathrooms and returned to the Director’s suite. Kata followed him into the bedroom, watched him stare at the water-sphere that filled an adjoining room. Steps led up to its opening, which was like the lid of an immense circular bottle. Once inside, you could swim through superoxygenated liquid just as in the Marin water palaces. The sphere would present worlds of fantasy to the swimmer, but they were also used for torture in the dungeons below. They could reflect back your own inescapable nightmares too.
Max drifted past her, back into the offices, and looked coldly at the egg-shaped machine behind the desk. The sight of him, after all this time wondering about his fate, filled her with a kind of surreal relief. He was alive, and a great guilt was lifted from her. But he had changed. His single-minded focus, his belief that striving for humanity was the most important thing in life, was tempered by a kind of watchfulness. His suffering had eaten away at his ambition, rounded him like a stone beneath the water.
She had changed also. Her yearning for him was gone. She had grown up, it seemed, and now stood on her own two feet. She didn’t need to cling to someone else’s ambitions to provide meaning in her own life. In fact, she didn’t need anyone. Now it was a matter of what she wanted, and she couldn’t be sure of that. The image of Dexion had begun to haunt such thoughts, but she wasn’t sure how she felt about the minotaur, either.
None of this mattered, anyway. She had other responsibilities, a siege to face. All personal concerns had to be swept aside. And in that moment she realized how much like Max and Rikard and Ejan she had become. That, it seemed, was the price of leadership.
“Memories,” Max spoke, almost as if to himself. “Why do you want to remember everything? Alerion, the time before the overthrow of the Houses—when everything seemed so simple. It would be better if we could forget it all, don’t you think? We wouldn’t have to carry around the load of the past. Yet we hold on to our memories. We save them up and replay them.”
“The load of the past makes us who we are,” said Kata. “We replay memories to make sense of ourselves.”
She followed him out onto the balcony. Some of the vigilants were preparing fires for the night.
“Look at us, trapped up here,” he said.
Yes, thought Kata. She thought of the Technis Director, Boris Autec. He had once stood up here, besieged by a surrounding army. She now knew how he felt, looking out ov
er an enemy city.
THIRTY-THREE
Armand examined the roof of the tent. Droplets of moisture hung from the fine material. Blankets covered all three of them, though the tent was meant for only two people. He closed his eyes again, rested in the warmth of the two bodies. How long since he had felt warmth like this? He couldn’t remember. It must have been back in Varenis, an epoch ago.
“Your friend seems better this morning.” The woman called Giselle stretched her hands up over her head, let them lie flat on the ground. Armand’s ally Dumas had employed the philosopher-assassin to follow him, report back on his activities, keep an eye on the prism, protect him as he rose through the upper echelons of Varenis—and perhaps kill him if necessary. She did not say this last part, but Armand imagined it was the case.
Irik lay sleeping on his side. His face had lost the slippery sheen of fever. In those first hours after their rescue, Irik had raved deliriously, reaching out and trying occasionally to sit up. The illness had hit a crisis point, and the oppositionist had begun to shudder relentlessly, like a broken engine. Then, suddenly, he stopped. Armand thought the man dead, and his heart sank, but Irik took a lurching breath, seemed to collapse in on himself, and fell into a deep deathlike sleep. For the rest of the night they had huddled there, safe in the warmth of the tent as the snowstorm whirled around them.
“It took me days to find where they had sent you,” said Giselle.
Armand nodded. “You might have come quicker.”
“You might have let me know you planned to escape,” shot back Giselle.
Giselle shuffled to the tent’s door flap, slid on her thick pants and her woolen coat, which lay at the foot of the tent, and stepped out into the air.
Armand glanced at the sleeping Irik and followed Giselle into the cold. The snow had taken on a crystalline blue color, and the sun twinkled on the icicles that hung from the trees. Nearby, a blanket of snow had covered the immense corpse of the Cyclops, so that he might almost have been a sculpture made by children. There was something tragic about the sight, that frightening and majestic creature so far from his warm and rocky home.
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