by Peter Newman
Little Ez hates the covers. They are a painful reminder of how much money his father is willing to spend on things he loves. Usually, they would swell over a sleeping body. Tonight, they are smooth, flat. The bed is unoccupied, the room also.
He begins to search. The room is packed with furniture and curios, picked for resale value over aesthetics. Together they clash, a painful, mismatched assembly. Little Ez shakes his head and keeps going. Under a statue of a triple-breasted man he finds it: a battered box hidden within the base. The box is guarded with a combination lock, the key to which is a number.
Little Ez tries several. His father’s age, both official, unofficial and in combination, the year of his birth, last year’s profit and many more. When he gets the right one he curses himself for a fool. It is the number of lovers his father claims to have.
The box opens on well oiled hinges. Inside is a gemstone the colour of milk, three small brain chips that have been carefully cleaned and a platinum coin that parts the light of the essence lamp with a glow of its own. He hesitates before taking them. He doesn’t mean to pause, but before he can continue, a whisper of guilt makes itself known. Little Ez considers closing the box and walking away. Then he considers how much these treasures might be worth and how little of his family’s vast wealth ever finds its way into his hands. He considers that it is only a matter of time before he owns these things anyway and so it is not really theft, more premature ownership.
The guilt is swiftly stamped out, the box tucked under his arm.
As he makes his way through the house, he hears the bolts in the front door sliding back, one by one, and voices he knows all too well. With a muffled curse, he closes the shutters on the lamp and dives behind a collection of second hand robes, once worn by the Uncivil’s cultists.
‘… Why else would a rat be fleeing? Because Snare is thinking that the city is finished. And Snare is probably not the only one, yes? Tough Call may catch him but she will not catch them all.’ Two silhouettes fill the doorway with ease, one impressively wide, the other more generally impressive. Ezze’s gaze comes to rest on the disturbed pile of robes. He frowns. ‘And here we are. Thank you for the escort, Marshal Maxi, but as you can see, Ezze’s home has many locks. He is safe now.’
‘I’m not done with you,’ the Usurperkin growls. ‘We’ve got things to discuss.’
‘The business or the pleasure? There is a twinkle in your eye that is flattering, but even Ezze cannot handle so much woman. It would be his death!’
The door is shut firmly. ‘My eyes don’t twinkle.’
‘Good, that is good. I take it from the look on your biceps that this cannot wait until morning.’
‘It can’t.’
‘The usual, then? Lucky for you, my giant friend, Ezze is well stocked.’
‘I think I’ll be taking double this time, and make sure it’s the good leaf.’
‘And why do you think this?’
‘Because if you tell me where the Malice is, I won’t tell the boss about your little games.’
‘Perhaps it is late or perhaps it is the speed at which you speak. Ezze is confused.’
‘Jo-lee let the Malice into the city tonight. She was paid to do it by your son.’
‘You are sure? There are many handsome young men in the city and Jo-lee is not … how to say? The quickest of fish.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘If it truly is Ezze’s son, he will have an explanation.’ His eyes settle briefly on the pile of robes badly in need of sorting and narrow. ‘Perhaps even a good one.’
‘He’d better. ’Cos if I find out you’re playing me—’
‘Yes, yes. Bones will be crunching, blood will be dancing. Ezze knows. Let us cross that when we are coming to it. For now, we will pay a visit to my boy and be hearing his explanation together. Ezze hides nothing from his friend, Marshal Maxi.’
‘Where is he?’
‘At this hour, he should be dreaming the dreams of the innocent. Sadly, he is neither dreaming nor innocent.’
‘What?’
Ezze sighs, points. ‘He’s hiding over there.’
‘Right.’
Maxi pounds across the room to where Little Ez cowers. Ezze follows, his customary smile slipping away.
*
The bodies have been cleared, Bruise rushed off for emergency treatment and Duet has been dug out. She and the kid exchange black looks behind Vesper’s back. In place of the door stands Max, waiting patiently for an opening in the conversation.
Vesper’s voice rises and falls, enthusiastic, her arms waving while Tough Call nods, asking questions from time to time.
‘And then this monster came, with two heads and huge claws. And Duet was fighting it but her sword couldn’t even break its scales and in the end I distracted it with some food and we ran away. And then we walked and walked forever until we got to Verdigris and that’s when Little Ez met us at the gates, and he brought us here. I suppose you know the rest.’
Tough Call pinches the bridge of her nose. ‘That’s quite a story.’
‘It is. I probably missed things out.’
‘You didn’t,’ mutters Duet.
A tired smirk appears on Tough Call’s face. ‘I’m glad your Uncle Harm found a way to be happy. And your father, did you know I met him as well?’
‘He doesn’t like talking about the past.’
‘I don’t remember him liking to talk much at all.’
Vesper smiles. ‘That’s true too.’
‘Well, he and I didn’t meet in the best of circumstances, which is a shame. He seemed like a good man.’ She looks at Vesper and pauses until she meets her gaze. ‘I’m going to come right out and ask: is that the Malice you’re carrying?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thought so. Is it true what they say about it?’
‘What do they say?’
‘That the sword is alive. That it’s part of The Seven.’
‘Well,’ says Vesper, screwing up her face in thought. ‘I think so. It’s definitely alive. It talks to me sometimes, not like we’re talking right now. But … I don’t know how to explain it. Like it’s talking into my heart.’
Tough Call gives the sleeping sword a wary glance. ‘There was a time when The Seven walked the Empire, long before we were born. Apparently, They used to work miracles. You ever hear about that?’ Vesper and Duet nod. ‘Good. Because we’ve both got problems right now and I’m hoping we can help each other out.’
‘I’d like that,’ replies Vesper. ‘What do you need?’
‘My people are sick. A plague we haven’t seen before. It goes for the untainted first but everyone except the half-breeds are susceptible. I was hoping you might take a look at one of them, and if you could, ask that sword of yours to help him.’
‘I can’t promise the sword will help but I can try.’
‘That’s all I can ask, we’re in sore need of good news. For my part I’ll try and do better by you than I did for you father. Tomorrow, the south gates will be open so that we can trade with outsiders. Be good if we could slip you out then before word gets around of you being here.’
Behind Duet’s visor, an eyebrow raises. ‘Bit late for that.’
‘Like I said, that problem’s been taken care of, right Max?’
The Usurperkin’s nod is a little late. ‘Right, boss.’
‘But Snare was just the start. There’s a lot of desperate folks out there and the First is offering big for your heads. Up till now we’ve had no trouble with the nomads but that could change quicker than the wind. And we’re in no shape to weather a storm.’
‘Can you give us supplies?’ asks Vesper.
‘Reckon I can stretch to that.’ Tough Call offers her hand. ‘Have we got a deal?’ Vesper takes it eagerly. ‘Good. Now, let’s see about introducing you to our first patient.’
They march down dim streets, Usurperkin screening off the Harmonised, girl and her goat from onlookers with bulk alone. Ahead of them, Tough Call and
Max converse unhappily.
‘So, Snare stole the guns, sold us out.’
‘Looks that way, boss. You want me to go get him?’
‘No, he knows the tunnels even better than we do. It’d be a nightmare trying to sniff him out. Besides, I need you up here. But as soon as he pops his head up again, I want it brought straight to me.’
‘Sure, boss.’ He sniffs and wipes his nose with the back of his hand.
‘You okay?’
‘Yeah. I just miss Tina.’
She reaches up for his shoulder and gives a long squeeze. ‘Ain’t that the truth. Now secure those tears, Max, or you’ll set us all off.’
They arrive at a set of three dwellings, piled one on top of the other, a messy sandwich of architecture. The walls of the lower and middle properties bend slightly under the strain of their own weight. Metal struts have been bolted to the outside for support, digging into the rock like the belt of an overweight giant. Original stairs have fallen away long ago, replaced by ladders riveted flush to the walls. Each of the three doors is marked with a circle, with a dot in its centre, the fresh paint glistening in the pale light.
Tough Call stops and points. ‘Your patient is in the middle house. His name is Doctor Grains.’
‘You’re not coming in with us?’
‘That house is infected. I’m not going near it! My advice would be to leave your friend here, too.’
Duet shakes her head. ‘Not going to happen.’
‘But—’ begins Vesper, turning to face the Harmonised.
‘Not going to happen.’
The ladders creak as they climb. Up close a kind of fungus can be seen winding its way around the rungs, a second skin, spreading slowly. The kid waits at the bottom of the ladder, watching them without expression. As soon as they reach the top, he begins to nibble experimentally at patches on the walls.
Time has warped the door and Duet has to push hard to get it to open. Inside, the air is musty and sweet. Her visor lights up the space. The house has been divided into quarters, each section turned to a different purpose. The one Vesper and Duet stand in is part storage, part kennel. Veins of mould line the walls, their blue vibrant against fading paintwork and a row of battered shoes lined alongside, roguish.
A pack of tame Handlings huddle in one corner, gibbering, rubbing digits together in an approximation of human nerves.
Vesper shivers and moves on quickly, Duet at her back, the Harmonised’s sword hanging loosely from one hand.
The next section is full of slides, meticulously labelled and organised, arranged on row after row of tiny shelves.
The third section contains a man wrapped in a sweat drenched sheet. Fever colours his cheeks and a rash twists across his exposed chest, changing shape before their eyes, the patterns never quite recognisable. The man’s eyes are closed, most of his eyelashes having already fallen away to land on sticky cheeks. Only his chest moves, jerking up and down, erratic.
Vesper hefts the sword from her shoulder and holds it out over the man, hilt first.
An eye opens, flicking over the man and then straining to turn, silvered wings flapping angrily. Vesper feels the movement, aids it, raising the weapon in her hands until an eye meets hers.
There is a long pause, then Vesper sighs, dropping her gaze.
‘What is it?’ whispers Duet.
‘I think … I think the sword wants to be drawn.’
‘Then draw it.’
‘But I’m scared.’
‘So?’
Vesper nods. ‘You’re right.’ She forces herself to look up again, finds an eye looking back. ‘Okay,’ she murmurs, ‘here we go.’ She rests the sword on the ground, holding the sheath in one hand, reaching for the hilt with the other.
The sword begins to hum softly, its gaze growing in intensity.
Vesper’s fingers pause, trembling. She takes another breath, bites her lip, reaches … and changes her mind. Instead of taking the hilt, she rests her right hand under one of the wings, bringing her left up under the other. They curl forward over her fingers, hooking fast.
Vesper lifts and the sheath slides away, the noise of its falling masked by the vibration of triumphant steel.
In the other room, Handlings skitter, their gibbers rising in pitch as they strain against their tethers. Duet glances warily in their direction but stays close to her charge.
Meanwhile, setting the sword’s point on the floor and tilting the hilt forward, Vesper is able to bring the man back into its line of sight. Carefully, she sweeps it back and forth.
Between the blade and the man’s body, the air sparks blue. Sweat evaporates and the rash turns livid. The man begins to twitch and moan.
Duet sheathes her weapon, stepping quickly around to press down on the man’s shoulders.
The rash is smoking now, burning under the sword’s terrible scrutiny. Vesper struggles to hold the sword steady, gritting her teeth and willing trembling muscles to stay strong.
Humming builds to a single note, pure and long. It passes through skin and bone, cleansing, changing.
And then it is done.
Duet steps back and all three watch, expectant, daring to hope.
The man’s eyes open, tired but focused. ‘Hello? What are you doing in my—’ He sits up suddenly. ‘Hell and spawnshit!’ Despite his ordeal the man is quick to slide off the bed onto his knees, head bowed. ‘By which, I mean, Garth Grains, your servant.’
Vesper embraces the sword, pressing her cheek against the flat of the blade. ‘You did it! You cured him! Thank you!’
An eye widens and silvered wings flick straight in surprise, quivering with tension. After a pause, they move to touch her shoulders, resting there.
One Thousand One Hundred and Five Years Ago
Few people come to the old quarry now, and those that do come for the wrong reasons. She warns them to go home but they insist on staying, eager to master the power she possesses. Massassi kills them, one by one. She doesn’t mean to. Doesn’t even want to. Each time she hopes she will get it right, that her enhancements will be stable. They aren’t. Essence disintegrates beneath her silver fingers, leaving empty skin and fresh nightmares.
Meanwhile, the babies grow.
Motherhood does not come naturally to Massassi. She resents their neediness, their noise, their stupidity. It is tempting to alter them, to enforce their obedience, but she worries that such an intervention would weaken their spirits and prevent future growth.
Instead, she resorts to reason and raising her voice, more the latter than the former. Every day, she takes them to the place where the world distorts and tests them for sensitivity. Every day, they fail.
Her own studies verge on the obsessive. When away from the distortion, she worries some critical change will be missed. Checking the anomaly three times a day quickly becomes four, then five, and worrying constantly in the times between. If there is ever an odd noise, an unexpected change in the weather, even a little indigestion, she immediately rushes outside. Soon, the visits become ritualised. They begin with a cursory study, followed by a detailed examination involving careful measurements, painstakingly noted. A third check of both the site and the notes is done to minimise the chance of error, followed by a final check, just to be sure.
If at any point in the process she loses concentration, she forces herself to start the whole thing again.
Over time the anomaly shifts, growing in almost imperceptible increments, shrinking some days, expanding others, an alien tide wearing on her shores, on her mind.
By their tenth year, the children are studious, focused, and very careful not to upset their carer. Despite their best efforts they cannot make Massassi smile, for they are fundamentally disappointing.
Though they try, they cannot understand even half of what she talks about and are of little use to her.
Sleep becomes a stranger to Massassi, brushing past at odd times in the day, leaving before any true rest can be had. She moves a chair outside, spends
increasing amounts of her time sitting in it.
Fatigue jumbles memory, sending her back and forth from the anomaly. Often she drifts off partway through a check, restarting and restarting until despairing tears roll down her cheeks.
A hand pulls her from her dreams, gently tugging at her sleeve. She looks up, recognises one of her charges, Peace-Eleven, looking excited. ‘What?’
‘I sheen it.’
‘Seen what?’
Peace-Eleven can barely contain herself, jumping up and clapping hands against thighs. ‘Shmoke.’
Massassi sits up, frowning. ‘Where?’
‘In the shpecial plache.’
She runs outside to find the other children there, clustered around the worn earth, clustered around the anomaly. Pushing past them she sees it, a thin wisp, pale enough to see through, probing into the world. The light of the sun burns at it, shrinking its potential but still it comes on, fighting to push fully through into the world. Staring at it is uncomfortable, the intruder paradoxical, both alien and familiar, repellent yet mesmerising.
For the first time it becomes aware of the onlookers, stretching towards the nearest, Quiet-Three. The boy gasps as the wisp draws nearer, not realising that opening his mouth, opening anything, is a fatal mistake.
Massassi knows. She can read the wisp as easily as she reads everyone else. Stepping towards it, her fingers spread and the iris in her palm opens.
Quiet-Three giggles as the wisp touches his upper lip. The sensation is hot-cold-sweet-pain and the boy inhales sharply, drawing the wisp inside in one quick gulp.
Essences mix badly within Quiet-Three, the slower moving human essence discolouring and cracking, the wisp of alienness boiling around it, burning itself out.
Massassi clamps her hand over Quiet-Three’s mouth, letting her essence reach within. She wraps the writhing energies in bands of glowing silver, one after another, spinning a net around the whole sorry mess. When every inch has been covered, the seal perfect, she squeezes, burning and crushing until nothing is left.
The body of Quiet-Three falls to the floor, reminiscent of so many others.