by Peter Newman
Vesper moves to where she sits, wrapping her in gentle arms. Eyes squeezed ever tighter, she presses her head into Vesper’s shoulder.
For a while, they stay that way.
The kid bleats once, pauses, bleats again. When neither respond he runs off.
Duet wipes at her eye and pulls back. ‘Thank you.’
‘Listen, Neer couldn’t promise anything but she thinks she might be able to stop things getting worse.’
‘What’s the catch?’
‘Time. We’d have to stay here.’
There is a pause, then the Harmonised shakes her head. ‘No. The sooner we leave here, the better.’
*
The Demagogue’s palace has gone through several incarnations. Shortly after the infernal tide first swept through New Horizon, the building collapsed, killing many of the occupants and putting a permanent crick in the Demagogue’s neck. Repairs are carried out quickly by a mix of slaves and demons, fear-driven and unskilled. Many die to complete the project, as much through incompetence as the design of the foreman.
At first, the Demagogue is pleased. It has little experience of buildings or aesthetics but is certain that if the Usurper has a palace, it should have one too. A larger one.
Two problems emerge. Both come from Witterspear, New Horizon’s half-breed chamberlain. Witterspear talks as most breathe, regular and unconscious. One day in court a stray comment is made, the tail end of a dull conversation.
‘Of course, the Fallen Palace is nothing like this one.’
From his high basin, the Demagogue glowers, demanding explanation. It had thought the two were identical.
‘I … well, for one thing, the Fallen Palace leans at an angle, like this.’ The chamberlain demonstrates. ‘And for another, it’s bigger.’ Juices bubble in the folds of the Demagogue’s belly and Witterspear tries to backpedal. ‘Not much bigger! The difference is marginal, barely noticeable.’
The next day, Witterspear is charged to make the Demagogue’s towers taller than the Usurper’s, to lean at a more acute angle and to be grander in scale.
More suffer, dragging materials up by hand and claw, pouring sweat into the growing structure. As soon as a new phase of the build eclipses the home of the Green Sun, it starts to collapse. Some say this is due to Witterspear’s incompetence. Witterspear says it is because the Usurper is ruler of all and, therefore, no palace can be greater. The Demagogue accepts this until the Usurper is ended.
While some infernals mourn the passing of their monarch the Demagogue orders a new round of building. Shortly after it crumbles, Witterspear’s head is added to the scaffolds.
New chamberlains come with designs and plans. Their heads line up together, mute testimony to the Demagogue’s displeasure.
Through this legacy, Samael strides. A strange patchwork of history. No one wall matches the other, any sense of the original’s cohesion buried in a mess of brick and metal, of glue and gaps. There are many holes in the Demagogue’s palace. A mix of struts and supports crowd in the spaces, eclectic, straining to keep the upper floors from gravity’s embrace.
Trophies and pictures are thrown up to an alien design, some at angles, some upside down. Several partially obscure each other, creating a collage, accidental. Some of the trophies are still alive; once displayed pride of place in the Demagogue’s court, now relegated to hallways or alcoves. They are fed when there is food to spare, and when the staff remember.
His guide leads Samael along passages that wind and coil like ugly knots of string. Windows are everywhere, on inner and outer walls, making little cuts in the floor and great gashes in the ceiling, melted blobs of glass that tint the world in surreal colours. Through these he sees abandoned sections of the palace, unfinished. Stairs that lead nowhere, doorways that open onto nothing.
Scout pads alongside him, communicating unease through linked essence and a heavy tail.
One of the exhibits comes to life as he goes past. A young man, ribs proud and easy to count, eyes and cheeks sunken, hollow. ‘Are you?’ he says with the greatest of urgency.
His guide waves a hand, dismissive, and keeps going. To her dismay, the exhibit continues to talk.
‘Are you?’
Samael stops, annoying the guide who is forced to wait for him. ‘Am I what?’
His mouth flaps, fishlike. ‘Are you?’
‘Come,’ says the guide, gesturing him to follow. ‘It is not wise to keep the Demagogue waiting.’
He nods, and they continue on their way, leaving the man on his plinth. Samael is nearly at the passage’s end when the man finds the words.
‘Are you real?’
This time he does not stop. Of course he is real!
The man sees something recognisable in Samael’s armour despite the battered plates and grotesque construction. ‘Are you a knight?’
His question hangs in the air, unanswered, ignored.
They pass through a set of doors that are sealed to the walls, forever open. It is unclear whether the gesture is symbolic or just apathetic.
As he walks, Samael wonders. Is he a knight? He is not. But is he? Should he be? The thought troubles him. The idea too resonant to put away.
The last question reaches him though Scout’s ears. The Dogspawn hanging back as, in truth, he wishes to himself.
‘Are you going to honour your oath?’
He has never taken an oath. His creator did not need oaths to secure his loyalty. He was made to obey. But the question joins the others, swirling in his thoughts, an indigestible chorus.
The Demagogue’s court chamber is made entirely of glass. A vast quantity of it, stolen over many years and fused together into a huge sphere of irregularity, thick in places, thin in others. The chamber makes nightmares of anything viewed through or reflected in it. It sits dangerously on top of the palace, an ugly bauble, clashing magnificently with its messy surroundings.
Within the court are half-breed servants and demi-lords, keeping to the edges. A huddle of lesser infernals occupy a closer orbit, a colourful collection of shells, mostly animal. The Demagogue has forced them into regular essence contact over the years, asserting its dominance. The result is a gradual eroding of boundaries, of identities. Homogenising possible rivals into a simplistic mob.
Towering over them all is the Demagogue itself, a giant mound of blubber bobbing in its basin. Its arms are long wizened sticks capped with spindly twig fingers and its legs atrophied stumps. The shell’s original head flops to one side, purple, like a wonky pimple.
Three humans sit on a bench before it, facing towards the entrance, still as statues. They are the voices of the Demagogue, living mouthpieces for New Horizon’s infernal ruler. The first man is thick-limbed, well fed and full of beard, the second, young and supple, hairless. The third a tiny girl, wrapped in black.
Samael is brought before them.
Having carried out her duty, his guide makes a quick retreat.
The Demagogue reaches out with a stretched finger to stab the head of the tiny girl. Essence jolts into her, animating, and eyes glare with inhuman intensity.
‘What, what, what? What is it? Is it from the Palace of the Fallen? Another one?’
The girl’s chin juts towards another part of the room and he realises he is not the first to be invited. Hangnail stands painfully apart from the others, its body still, its essence radiating displeasure. The battered shell of a pink-skinned cat stalks around its legs, trying for Hangnail’s attention, tugging at the infernal’s ragged coat.
‘But wait!’ says the girl, looking at Samael once more. ‘It was not there when we spilt into the world. It is not a challenger. It is not even of the Jade and Ash. An ashling at best. Which of us do you serve, ashling?’
His response is automatic. ‘I do not serve.’
‘It does not serve? It will learn. It will see.’
‘Enough of this. I must go.’
‘Must it? Must it go? Where does it go? Why does it go? It will speak or it will be
made to speak.’
The court tenses, prepared to do the Demagogue’s bidding. Hangnail’s coat of skins twitches, ready to open, though on who it is hard to say.
It is almost impossible to lie to an infernal, Samael knows this. He chooses a truth, hopes it will satisfy. ‘I go to find the sea.’
‘Later, it goes. First, it waits. Waits on my pleasure.’
‘Why?’
Everything goes still, even the infernal cat, wary of what will come.
‘Why, it says? Why? Because I wish it. You are the second to come here, not the last. A gathering we will have. Until then, the ashling will wait.’
He has no choice, there are too many for him to take alone.
If Hangnail and he were to fight together, they may have a chance. But he does not trust Hangnail to support him. Does not wish to throw his existence away, at least, not cheaply. So he waits, wondering, questions loud in his mind.
What am I?
Ashling? Knight? King?
Scout begins to growl, turning back to stare at the doorway. He senses it too. The coming of new infernals, familiar. A taste, powerful, utterly repellent and lots of similar, lesser ones.
He waits for them while thoughts swirl, storm-like, and his hand moves to the hilt of his sword.
*
In her dreams, Vesper falls. Ever faster, tumbling into the void. Sometimes she rushes towards it, sometimes it towards her, hungry. There are other details, trivial, changing from one night to the next, that Vesper forgets. Only the falling is constant, and the inevitability of impact.
She wakes in surprise, in a sweat. Across from the bed, leaning in a corner, is the sword, its eye fixed on her.
It does not look happy.
Vesper rubs at her face. For a moment the room seems too solid, too … substantial? In her heart, she is surprised to find it still here.
Slowly, an eye closes, glaring while wings curl, returning to their normal position.
She sits up, stretches. The room is just a room again, the sword, a sullen sleeping thing.
Vesper turns her blanket back into a coat, pulling it on. Then she picks up the sword by its scabbard, mindful not to make contact with the sword itself. She is not sure what will happen if she touches the hilt but expects it would be bad. She remembers her father’s fear of it, remembers that, unlike her, he was chosen by The Seven. For the first time, the reality of her situation strikes. Someday soon, she will have to use the sword and it may very well be her end.
The kid follows her through passages, dusty and dark, to where Duet rests.
‘I think it’s time to go,’ she says.
‘Finally.’
It has been two weeks since Duet’s operation. The time is filled with waiting and arguments about her health and the need to leave.
Neer escorts them to Wonderland’s edge.
Vesper chats with her, footsteps dragging towards the end. ‘Thank you so much for all your help.’
‘We could turn back if you wanted. There’s no shame in it. You could live with me and I could study your friend.’
‘I’d like to stay longer, I really would. But I think the sword wants us to go. And anyway, I have family waiting for me to come home.’
‘That must be nice.’
Vesper’s eyes brighten. ‘You could come with us!’ Neer is already shaking her head but she presses on. ‘That way you could help Duet and we wouldn’t have to part. It’s perfect!’
‘Perfect? No, no, no. It is a sweet notion but this body is getting too delicate for travel and, besides, what about Runty and the other children? They need me more than you do.’
‘You could bring them too.’
‘Now you’re just being silly.’
‘How did you find all those children?’
‘Oh, I didn’t find them. Others found them, or grew them from cuttings. I just look after them. It’s one of the few parts of my job that is still relevant.’
Duet stops, suspicious. ‘A Necroneer minding children?’
‘What of it?’
‘I don’t believe it. More likely, you harvest them for parts.’
‘Yes. I thought that was obvious. Even the best methods of preservation can’t compare to fresh material.’
‘It’s disgusting.’
Vesper nods, horrified.
Neer tuts at them both. ‘Is it? They are given shelter and food and a much better quality of life than they’d have without me. They live for years in relative comfort. For years! Is it any different from keeping animals, my little farmer?’ She looks pointedly at the kid.
Vesper frowns.
‘Or any worse than grooming soldiers for battle.’
Words struggle out past Duet’s rage. ‘You can’t compare … what you do … with me!’
‘Are you not looked after until such time your purpose is served? Tell me, how does the Shining City treat its veterans?’
‘They are honoured.’
‘Do you know any?’
‘A few.’
‘And how many of those are soldier class?’ Duet frowns. ‘And how many of those are Harmonised?’
‘I’ve had enough … of this.’
‘Hardly the lively debate one hopes for but I accept your surrender.’
Duet walks away without saying goodbye. Vesper trudges after but cannot help turning one last time. ‘But, you don’t do that any more, do you? Kill the children I mean.’
‘No, no, no. Not any more. The Uncivil is gone, my only source of animating essence with her. What could I possibly gain from further experiments?’
‘I don’t know.’
She raises a finger skyward. ‘Exactly. I’m as fond of the little rascals as you are of your pet. I enjoy the company so I keep them on. It gives me something to do.’ She looks past Vesper’s shoulder. ‘Now you’d best be moving on. Your friend has already got a head start.’
Vesper nods. ‘I’ll miss you.’
‘If she survives, bring her back with you.’
‘I will.’
‘And if she doesn’t, anything you can retrieve would be invaluable to my research.’
‘But if she dies, what would be the point?’
‘The future. One must always have an eye on the future.’
*
Through the ever open doors comes the hulking form of Gutterface. Samael watches it shuffle into the room, saggy bulk blocking the exit. Tiny infernals clamber all over it like children, like parasites, sitting in folds of skin and the curls of old wounds, perching on shoulders and hipbones.
Samael notes how comfortable the infernals seem together, essence purring and self-satisfied. He tightens his grip on his sword as other facts come to him, adding up to trouble: Gutterface and its children come without a guide. That means it has been to the Demagogue’s court before. He looks between the Gutterface and the Demagogue, positioned either side of him and Hangnail, like the jaws of a trap.
The Demagogue pulls its finger from the girl’s head and she goes slack. All eyes follow the too-long digit as it rises, turns and descends upon the bald skull of the young man next to her. He jolts awake, lips pulled back in a smile so wide that skin cracks around his lips.
‘Welcome, Gutterface! Welcome!’ The lips move, giving voice to the Demagogue’s thoughts. ‘The gathering gathers size and is nearly complete. Just one more to come and then …’ The man stops talking, his face a smiling mask, frozen.
Samael sees all the little eyes peering at him from the nooks and crannies of Gutterface’s body. He looks at the lesser creatures of the court and finds hunger in their eyes as well, identical. At his side, Scout growls.
Hangnail is the first to crack. The lone infernal stretches out its arms, casts open the coat of skins …
Hooks emerge, curling and sharp along its edge. They blur over the pink-skinned cat sitting by its feet, spearing it. A single shriek gets out before hooks strip the skin away with fluid ease, tucking it away to be added later. A skeleton slops onto the floor, mus
cle and blood, steaming, red.
The Demagogue’s finger comes sharply away from the young man’s head, which flops forward, and finds its way to the skull of the third figure on the bench. He animates at the touch, beard bristling, and his mouth foams as he shouts, storm-like, ‘Hang the Hangnail! Tear it! Make me ribbons!’
As one, the court swarms towards Hangnail.
In answer, the infernal opens its coat wide, like a pair of ragged wings or the lips of a giant mouth. Hooks glisten and twitch, ready to strike as the Demagogue’s forces attack, small shapes flying forward, snarling and unfolding, all teeth and claws and bile.
It is more a scrum than a battle.
Gutterface points its arms towards Hangnail and its children cheer, pouring out of their hiding places to skip towards the beleaguered infernal.
Samael cannot see Hangnail now for the sheer weight of enemies between them. Even if they work together they have no chance of victory. It is time to go. He rushes for the door, sword drawn, Scout keeping pace.
But Gutterface still blocks the door. Samael turns his shoulder, speeds up.
Rotten flesh shudders with the impact but Gutterface doesn’t move. Samael swings his sword, trying to cut his way to freedom. The blade slips easily through the meat of the shoulder, cracking bone underneath. He pulls back for another strike but his sword is reluctant to leave, stuck fast in the festering flesh.
Gutterface strikes him in the chest and he sails backwards, limbs trailing after, sword clattering to the floor.
His head slams against the curving wall opposite and lines splinter across the glass, radiating out. His view flickers, like two pictures superimposed, sickening. Through the confusion he senses Scout’s rage, and as he focuses on it, he sees Gutterface from the Dogspawn’s perspective.
Then it is gone, his mind lurching back and forth, in one place, in another, in both.
He is by the wall, head resting in the new dent he has made.
He is leaping through the air, jaws open and angry.
He is by the wall, trying to stand straight.
He is tearing at Gutterface, watching innards spill like beans from a torn bag.