Rainer wrapped an arm around her. “Not now, Siki. We have visitors.”
The woman continued to croon as she turned her head to Armand and Giselle, examining them curiously.
“Miracles never cease.” Rainer brushed his cheek against the Trid-Girl’s. “Even here in the Department of Satisfaction. Armand, my friend. Just in time, too. It’s amazing how powerful a pawn can be when it finds the right square on the board.”
Armand remembered Rainer’s warnings at Valentin’s party: Valentin: he’s not to be trusted, the man had told him, clear as day.
“I should have listened to you,” said Armand. “You warned me, but I was loyal.”
“I thought loyalty was one of your precious principles?” Rainer kissed Siki. She pushed herself away and spun across the floor like a dancer. Another Trid-Girl, this one with orange hair, appeared at a nearby doorway, leaned against the frame calmly, and watched the conversation curiously.
“I have learned there is a higher principle, and that is to face reality, to make use of any means to reach your goal.” Armand’s voice had found a new cold and sure equilibrium.
“Ah, Realpolitik—that is the Varenis way,” said Rainer.
Armand walked to the window, looked out over the plaza. A cold wind whipped between the twelve immense black towers. Huddled in the middle stood the smaller tower of the Director. “So, how is my protector, Valentin?”
Rainer laughed and walked over to stand beside Armand. “You should see him panicking in his tower, desperately trying to call in favors from Controllers who do their best to ignore him. The prism is unworkable, of course, bound with arcane sciences no one can unlock. Meanwhile, in Caeli-Amur, the seditionists are destroying the entire city, and Valentin’s plans have come to naught. His support has deserted him. We need the Gorgons to call another ritual.”
Armand tried to see through the windows of Valentin’s tower. He imagined his betrayer hiding in there, scrabbling to maintain his power. “There is a way to unlock the prism’s secrets, and I possess it.”
Rainer smiled broadly. “Are there no end to your surprises, Lecroisier? It seems our pawn has made the long journey all the way to the back row. The question is, what piece are you now?”
Armand placed a hand on each of Rainer’s broad shoulders. “I think you know. You didn’t believe it back at Valentin’s party, but I think I’m probably a Gorgon now. Shall we recapture Caeli-Amur, I at the head of the legions and you in the Director’s seat?”
Rainer’s voice trembled with anticipation. “Oh yes. The real Gorgons will be keen to discuss it with us, I’d say. Shall we pay them a visit?”
* * *
The passages beneath the Plaza of the Sun were labyrinthine, and Armand followed Rainer with trepidation. He had learned not to trust but to be constantly on guard. At first he controlled his emotions, but he became more anxious when they took other, older paths, deeper down. Soon the walls were made of the same black stone as the Sortileges’ Towers. Armand knew this was primeval rock, rock that held secrets predating even the ancients. Down here, in the black bowels, lived the Gorgons.
A vast door loomed before them. Its surface was carved with great images from the days of the ancients. The two dragons wrapped and writhed around each other in the embrace that signaled their compact against the ancients of Etolia. For years they had wreaked havoc until Alerion faced them on the rocky island of Culia, not far from Aya. He returned victorious, but he was changed. After that, he was filled with anger—or so the myth went.
Rainer pressed the doors, which creaked open of their own accord. A single thin corridor led into the darkness. Rainer handed Armand the lantern. “I will wait here, for it is you who they want to talk with.”
Armand entered that black passageway, a tightness in his chest. On it went, until, after what seemed like an age, he came out into a vast and shadowy circular hall, flickering torches on its walls. Thinking he might find the Gorgons in the gloom on the far side of the hall, he walked toward the center before realizing that three sections of the floor were in fact large circular pools of black water. Armand stopped, put his lantern on the floor, and knew where he had seen this hall before, in the Embrace of the Augurers.
The pools were shimmering. Something moved beneath the surface. An interminable rolling of the waters, and then something wriggling broke the surface: a serpent, its tongue slithering out of its mouth, its fangs bared. It was followed by another and another, writhing around one another, until finally the Gorgon’s head burst from the waters.
Armand heard water streaming from the bodies of the two Gorgons rising from the pools behind him. Terrified, he stood rooted to the spot as the first creature approached him. Its pupils were vertical ellipses, like those of the mad serpents writhing on its head. Though the snakes were horrific, the Gorgon was beautiful, too, with classical features, high cheekbones, perfect skin, full lips. She tilted her head and opened her mouth. Sharp canine teeth brushed her bottom lip.
Now that all three were close to Armand, they circled him, tilting their heads, looking him up and down as if they had never seen anyone like him before.
Armand broke the awful tension. He held out the book. “In return for the Directorship, I bring you this, The Alerium Calix.”
One of the Gorgons stepped toward him, her face closer and closer. Her eyes fixed on his, and he trembled. Cold snakes slithered over his forehead. Her lips touched his as she took the book; she looked down upon it, opened it. Gasping, she stepped backward. Her serpents hissed in excitement. Forked tongues lashed the air. Armand closed his eyes, expected death to come quickly. When he opened them, a second Gorgon was leaning over him.
“Ah, the means to work the prism,” she said.
“This is what we have…,” began another.
“Been searching for,” finished the last Gorgon.
The first Gorgon reached out, cupped Armand’s face with her hand. “You have the numbers on the council to replace Valentin?”
“We do.”
She smiled a terrifying smile. “The Sortileges will soon return from their Towers, their current research complete, and they will work the magic of the prism. In return, a new ceremony will be called shortly. Feel free to dispose of Valentin as you see fit. He has lost our confidence, anyway. If you have the numbers and he can withstand our test, Rainer can rise to the position of Director.”
The serpents writhed across Armand’s head as the Gorgon leaned in and kissed him.
FORTY
Armand’s hands were shaky from nervous excitement as he strode along the corridor, Rainer’s great bulk shifting from side to side to his right. Behind them, Giselle headed a group of ominous men who carried terrifying baglike hoods.
The group squeezed uncomfortably into the elevator, which carried them high up the Director’s Tower. When they shuddered to a halt, Armand pulled the accordionlike door open, and they stepped into a reception room filled with chairs, chaise longues, and small geometric tables.
From a higher level came the voice of the Director. “Who’s there? What is it?”
Armand reached the stairs first, mounted them with energy. A balcony encircled the room, and through the windows they could see the magnificent plaza with its vast Department buildings. The black towers of the Sortileges loomed closer, and Armand wondered if those thaumaturgist priests were taking an interest in these petty politics, or if they were still caught in their dark research.
Valentin sat at a desk in the center of the room, which each of the Controllers in their towers could see. He looked up from his work, irritated. “What do…” The irritation faded into confusion. “Armand. But…” Already the men from the Department of Security were encircling Valentin, and his eyes showed he was suddenly aware of them. Caught between anger and terror, he started to stand, sat down again, gathered himself.
“Friend of my grandfather,” Armand said. “Valentin, whom I cared for and respected. I have so longed to see you.”
Va
lentin’s face dropped into coldness. “So you’re just like your grandfather, a treasonous…”
Armand felt a surge of confidence. Revenge was sweet indeed. “Even if my grandfather did betray you—well, Valentin, it’s you who taught me that sometimes it is necessary. Sometimes you have to lie and cheat and betray for the greater good. You are just reaping what you sowed. In one way, you are a father to me.”
Valentin shifted a paper onto a pile beside him, as if work continued uninterrupted. Armand admired his calm dignity.
“Where shall we take him, sir?” asked one of the men from the Department of Security.
“To Camp X, with the political prisoners. The former Director Tiedmann will be waiting for him there,” said Armand.
With a whipping motion, a bag went over Valentin’s head. Straps were tightened. The man sat motionless. Just as Armand had accepted his fate, so Valentin acceded to his. He only let out a tiny burbling sob as he was led down the stairs. Sometimes the force of history was too powerful to resist.
With a feeling of contentment, Armand watched them lead the man away. Victory was his. There is justice in the world, he thought. You just have to take it.
Once Valentin was gone, Rainer sprawled into the Director’s chair and looked around the room. “I could get used to this. Now, first things first. Once I’m Director, we’ll need to mobilize the legions. Some will need to return from the west, I suppose. Still, Caeli-Amur shouldn’t resist too much, should it?”
Armand walked to the sphere that stood before the Director’s desk. He ran his hand over it. He knew the sphere’s sibling was in the Technis Director’s office. He remembered Autec’s conversations with Tiedmann, all those months ago, and the chilling appearance of the Sortileges behind, their sheer power warping the images. Yes: once they had finished their rituals, the Sortileges would appear to them, and nothing could defeat them then.
“They’re only seditionists,” he said.
FORTY-ONE
Sparks flew from the horse’s shoes as they struck the cobblestones on Via Persine. As night deepened, Caeli-Amur was blanketed in its usual thick autumn fog. Kata and the lieutenant raced ahead of Max, who gripped his reins tightly. The minotaur trailed behind.
“Come on!” Dexion slapped the horse’s haunch, but the creature’s tongue was already lolling out of its mouth. The look in the poor thing’s eyes spoke volumes: Why do I have to carry this horned monster?
In the square in front of the Technis Palace, the vigilant forces were already mobilized, ready to strike. Behind the walls, the moderates were armed and ready.
When he was informed of Ejan’s orders, the vigilant commander stood blinking in disbelief. “But, but—”
The news broke that the seditionist conflict was over, and the vigilant forces let out a cheer. Moderates streamed from the complex. Hands were shaken; relieved conversations begun. The citizens valued unity, above all else.
But events were occurring at a frantic pace, and no sooner had the fraternizing between the forces begun than a messenger raced into the square. “Gladiators are marching down Via Gracchia!”
Max pictured the city. This force threatened to cut off the seditionist forces around the Technis Complex from those at the Opera. He knew the first principle of military strategy was to never divide your forces. But Max also knew his place. He was not the leader of this army. He was here to help Kata, just as she had helped him in his time of need. He was here as a seditionist foot soldier, doing what he thought right.
Kata gathered the captains in a circle, black-suited vigilants and gray-uniformed moderates awkwardly assessing the new alignments. “I won’t be isolated up here, away from our bases in the factories and Ejan’s forces at the Opera. From the Factory Quarter, Ejan should be able to retreat and join us. We can fight together, or retreat across the wall and out of the city if need be.”
She sent a screening force of mobile philosopher-assassins along Via Gracchia to slow the gladiator’s advance along the café-lined street. As the rest of the troops marched toward the Factory Quarter, news came of vicious clashes already occurring. But the rear guard proved successful, and before long the rest of the seditionists were entrenching themselves among the factories and densely packed houses. Quickly constructed barricades, built of furniture and loose bricks, went up across the streets. Scorpion ballistae were set up in strategic positions, their sights aimed down the largest approaches.
The sun rose to the east, and the fog lit up like a vast sheet of burning gold. The very air seemed overheated, as if the city had been torn from the ground and existed in suspended animation in some luminous underworld. Max thought of the summer before: so hot, but giving way so quickly to a frigid autumn. Who knew what winter would be like?
She’s mad, said Aya. To abandon a fortress for open streets. She could have holed up there for a week.
—She’s not fighting only a military war; she’s fighting a political one. She won’t abandon the city or its citizens—said Max.
Adjutants ran in every direction, rushing to find Kata, rushing off again with new orders. Citizens slowly emerged from their houses and apartments. Some helped in the barricade building; others scurried away, carrying what valuables they could.
Another messenger came, this one bloodstained, a haunted look in her eyes. “The Opera has been overrun. Some escaped into the Quaedian; others were hunted down and slaughtered. The dead lie in the streets all around the Market Square. More float in the harbor. It’s a massacre.”
Max thought briefly about Rikard, lying unconscious in the Opera. Kata would be upset at his death.
The Collegia’s army did not press its advantage at Kata’s rear, letting the rear guard of philosopher-assassins escape, fewer and bloodied, but alive. Instead they waited for their forces from the Opera to come up Via Persine. Together they would crush the seditionists in a pincer movement.
Then even worse news came, as a second black-shirted messenger staggered toward Kata’s entourage. Blood stained her uniform, and the vigilant’s ghastly face said it all. “The thaumaturgists are mobilizing at Marin. They have summoned the Furies.”
Kata’s face looked suddenly drawn. She seemed older, worn-down. Dexion let out an impressive growl. He pulled his huge hammer from his belt and swung it forward and backward ominously.
I like that minotaur, said Aya.
Max had seen the destruction the Furies had wrought when the Houses had loosed them on the striking Xsanthian dockworkers before the overthrow. Blackened corpses had been left strewn around Caeli-Amur’s piers, stinking in the sun. The Furies had been the Houses’ secret weapon: creatures summoned by the thaumaturgists from the Other Side, the land of death. Few could look at their hideous bodies as they slipped in and out of the material world without fleeing.
Max looked desperately around. He was the only thaumaturgist there. “How many?” Max asked.
The woman, exhausted and wounded, said, “A hundred or so.”
Max drew a breath. Now there was truly no hope. Only death awaited them.
Kata turned to him. “Max, your friend Odile. She came to me at the Arena and warned me that you were imprisoned in the Arbor dungeons. She also said she was part of the Brotherhood of the Hand, who were loyal to the seditionists. Without those thaumaturgists, we can’t fight the Furies. Can you contact her?”
Max let his head drop back slightly. “Maybe, if she still lives near the university.”
“The Brotherhood: we need them, wherever they are.”
* * *
Strengthened by a new sense of hope, Max dashed along the cobblestone streets, past the hastily constructed barricades. The shopkeepers on Via Persine had already closed their doors and shutters, pulling down their grates and leaving the place as empty as a ghost town. Max glanced in both directions, expecting the Collegia’s forces to emerge from the fog, but the street remained cold and empty.
Max scrambled across the street and headed toward the university. A few citizens scu
rried from place to place: grim-faced women carrying bundles or bags, hooded students with books beneath their arms. The citizens knew violence was at hand.
Well, it looks like we’re finally going to die. It’s a strange thought, after all these years. Oblivion: How do you feel about it? said Aya.
—We’re not going to die—replied Max. —Though it would be worth it for a little piece of mind around here.
You injure me.
—You’re making jokes right now?
When you’re facing oblivion is the best time for jokes.
Max breathed hard as he broke into a run, slowed to a fast walk along the steep and narrow streets, and ran once more down stairs until he came to a small crossroads. On one corner, a stone tower rose a couple of stories above the building it emerged from. Max had spent evenings here, drinking coffee and debating with Odile before the overthrow. Back then she had been an intellectual, opposed to the seditionists. Apparently, events had dragged her in. History had a way of doing that.
Max opened a small wooden door, ducked beneath the crossbeam, and climbed the miniature stairs up to the third-floor garret. He struck the door sharply three times—rat-tat-tat—and waited.
Whispered voices came from the room beyond.
“Odile,” he said. “It’s Max. Let me in.”
The door opened slightly, and Odile looked out through the gap. Her close-cropped blond hair was ruffled, her eyes tight with anxiety. “What are you doing here? You’ll get us all killed.”
“Odile, the Brotherhood of the Hand. They’re the seditionists’ only hope.”
Odile looked at him for a moment, pulled open the door, and hustled Max into the circular room. A thaumaturgist peered through one of the arrow slits that served as a window to the street below. The man turned and examined Max briefly. He rolled his shoulders and brushed his greenish face with the back of his hand. “I’m Clovis, of the Brotherhood.”
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