“What?”
“You like what I am, what I stand for. A conquest, an experience.”
Name of the Sun’s eyes flashed rage at him. They both knew the truth in this statement, and they both knew that saying it out loud meant Name of the Sun really did have to get up now, and that they could never again have a shot at sharing what they had briefly tried to share.
During this argument, the owner of the tiny stall where the couple were sitting, Hakim, who had left his cooking fires to clean adjacent tables, moved nearer and nearer, trying to mind his own business but also, by his proximity, trying to remind Nahid and Name of the Sun to keep their discussion hushed. At the advance of his big hands, offended flies rose from remains on the big, curled leaves he served his food in. Nahid nearly looked straight at Hakim. He wanted to tell the man to stay out of it, but that would be adding insult upon injury: the stall was one of only two in Hangman’s Alley that served kholics, and it was the only stall in all of Nowy Solum that served kholics sitting with hemos. Despite relenting (or collapsing) mores, Hakim’s business was slow, vandalism frequent, and harassment concerning municipal codes or any other violation that the palatinate might be able to lift from the books relatively routine.
A large man, gruff and loud, with a huge stomach and scars either cheek, Hakim was not tattooed, though no one had seen him smile. First impressions were invariably that Hakim was mean, possibly a killer; the man had several grown children and numerous grandchildren, who clambered all over him when they came by, as if he were a rock. Patrons knew him as the source of sage advice. Sometimes Hakim let patrons eat for free if he saw they were skint and hungry or desperate enough. Nahid—who had been coming to Hakim’s with Octavia regularly, whenever they had any small coins, since they were old enough to leave the ostracon and work the streets—knew, even in his current state, that it would be foolish to lose a friend like him.
Instead, he motioned for another pint.
“If you drink one more beer,” said Name of the Sun, “I will truly leave.”
Between two structures just then, coming into Hangman’s Alley from across the way, a chanting song arose, getting louder: all three looked. Nahid, whose veins were positively singing with the combination of drugs and anger now, felt a small sense of relief at the distraction.
A group emerged from behind a stall on the opposite side of the Alley, all of them men, bare-chested. Crowds in the market parted to let the procession through. There were perhaps five, leading two cognosci in collars and muzzles. The shaggy beasts looked dazed, and over the muzzle of each was inked a parody of Nahid’s tattoo. Blood—hemo blood—trickled from numerous wounds on the stocky torsos of the creatures while, behind them, coming up the rear, a tall, narrow-faced man bearing a whip—who was leading the chanting—lashed out.
Hakim was there to place a heavy hand on Nahid’s shoulder, keeping him seated.
“What is this shit?”
“They circle Hangman’s and the ostracon each day. You’ve been busy. They’re confronting kholics that get in the way.”
“Confronting?”
“Don’t do anything. I’m warning you. This guy with the whip, he claims to be cleansing the city, so gods can return.”
“The gods?” Nahid spat. “Gods have nothing to do with me. What does he want with kholics?”
“He wants them to leave Nowy Solum. Or die.”
Nahid stared the group down, forcing himself to look directly at the man who led the chanting, draining his glass as they went by. He slammed his empty on the table. The man with the whip paused directly in front of Hakim’s stand and their eyes met. There was a quick jolt that passed through Nahid, almost physical. A hush fell over Hangman’s Alley. Nahid tried to stand but Hakim’s hand remained on his shoulder. The man facing him was thin but banded with hard muscles. His face seemed equally hard. His head was shaved and his cheeks smeared with streaks of red. Nahid held his gaze.
Others in the crowd, seeing this boldness, this transgression, and recognizing the potential confrontation, began to clear away.
Hakim shook Nahid, hissing as the man with the whip slowly raised his free hand and pointed a long finger. Then he brought his hand up and moved his finger across his own throat. Between the two, the marked cognosci danced nervously from paw to paw.
“You fool, Nahid,” Hakim hissed. The stall owner’s hands were huge and powerful; Nahid could not break free. “You’re lost in your own world. You have no idea how the city has changed.”
Nahid’s palms had gone cold. Had changes happened to Nowy Solum because of his actions? Would he never look at Name of the Sun’s face again? His gaze began to burn with tears.
Was he truly a coward?
Across the Alley, another kholic—a young boy with long hair and a broad, dark tattoo— cleaned the gutter. Nahid felt as though he had betrayed this boy, and all the others working the streets.
Then he found himself wondering how another full glass had arrived so fast. And, when he turned to Name of the Sun, to share with her a new theory about why the time was so right for the actions they had taken, and why he had to stay behind the curtain, she was no longer sitting at the table.
Nahid was stunned. How long had she been gone? He drank half his pint in big gulps. He was not a coward. He was not. And he would prove it. He would return to Jesthe right now, alone, to enter the cavernous chambers, to walk the hallways of Nowy Solum’s rundown palace.
The chatelaine pulled open both doors as soon as the girl knocked. She had even tidied the room herself, perfunctorily, putting away her devices at least, and telling herself as she did so that she would not retrieve them again for some time.
On the threshold, Octavia looked small and even more lovely than earlier.
“How was your visit?”
“I did what you asked.” The girl’s blue eyes, collarbone level with the chatelaine, seemed out of focus, swimming in the tattoo, as if she were trying to conjure some remote memory. “How long has she been down there? The fecund?” Her eyes flickered up, and away. “She said strange things to me.”
The chatelaine laughed. She touched the girl. “Oh yes, you get used to her. She says all kinds of things. She’s never the same twice. Sometimes she knows the future and other times she’s afraid of her own shadow. She talks about aggression but I know for a fact she can do no harm. She’s not like us, Octavia. Now, did she ask about me?”
“In a fashion.”
Again the chatelaine laughed. She felt so much better. This girl was a veritable tonic. “Won’t you come in? The room’s still a bit of a mess but please, come in, sit down. I’ve lemonade ready. Do you like lemonade?”
Octavia let herself be steered into the bedchambers. She sat on the end of the bed, where the chatelaine patted, and took the cool glass of lemonade. She held the glass between her knees, in both hands, but did not drink. She looked down at the straw matting on the floor.
“Well, did the fecund like you? Was she surprised to see you? Did you talk for a while?”
Octavia looked up warily but stopped short, as always, from looking the chatelaine in the eye. “I think she, uh, I think she liked me. Like you said she would.”
The chatelaine clapped and released from her lips a strange exclamation that neither acknowledged. “Who wouldn’t like you? My goodness. Tell me, what did she say? Or you can tell me later, if you’d like. Look, I’ll show you my pets. Would you like that? Drink up.”
“If it’s all right with you, I’d rather just sit here for a while.”
The chatelaine hoped that neither her disappointment nor her nervousness was obvious. “All right, then,” she said. “All right. Another time. I know how tiring it is, going down there. Positively draining.” She bit at her thumbnail. “But are you okay? Did she upset you? I should have told you that she likes to say, at times, outrageous things. She can mess with your head. You know she won’t hurt a fly? Well, maybe a fly. But that’s about it.”
“I just need to
rest for a while.”
The chatelaine moved closer to the girl. She thought about kissing Octavia, maybe pushing her back, gently, onto the bed.
But then the lemonade would spill.
As if sensing the growing energy, most likely trying to postpone the chatelaine’s advances, the kholic said, “I guess you could show me your pets, if you’d like.”
Relieved at having a goal—back on track—the chatelaine gestured for Octavia to stand. When the girl did so, they walked together to the alcove, the chatelaine’s hand propelling Octavia from the small of her delightful back. Reflected in the huge mirror that covered the entire wall, the creatures, and indeed the women’s own reflections as they approached, were distorted by flaws.
Watching their mistress, watching the stranger—those with eyes, at least—the pets began to get excited. The chatelaine frowned, thinking for a second that they might have recognized the kholic.
In front of each cage, the chatelaine gave a short introduction to the beasts within, which peered out or drooled or huddled away in fear. They were formless monsters. They hissed and burbled and chirped. Those she could reach, and which were benign, the chatelaine touched, rubbing their skin or scales through the bars with a crooked knuckle.
“This one represents Soaper’s and Candles, and the Horse Market.
“For Torchmere Lane, and the homes of North End, on the hill.
“This one is for Hangman’s Alley, and your ostracon.”
A beast uglier than the rest.
Octavia stared, unblinking.
“Child,” said the chatelaine, after a while, sidling closer, “Nowy Solum was not always the way it is today. Even during my father’s brief time as castellan, the city was different; it changes, subtly, with each leader. Chaos in the city, if there is chaos in Jesthe.” The chatelaine frowned at the intent expression on the kholic’s face. Was she even listening? Her pets seemed to be entranced by the girl. The chatelaine shivered. “The fecund,” she said quietly. “Do you understand? The monster takes what we give her and gives us back in return. She can change Nowy Solum. The colbali, for instance, when my father was down here. They appeared then. Me? Oh, I don’t know. My babies, and maybe even you, coming here!”
Octavia glanced at the chatelaine and then continued to the end of the alcove, where three paintings were hung in a vertical pattern, each illuminated by a torch, either side of the ornate frames. Then Octavia asked about the large iron key, hanging on two hooks above the wainscoting.
“That is the key to my heart,” joked the chatelaine.
The girl took a sip of her lemonade and put the glass down on a small ledge upon which the chatelaine usually kept water jugs to quench her pets’ thirst. She glanced at the floor for a moment but when she looked back up, her eyes met the chatelaine’s and burned with an intensity that made the chatelaine look away this time, breath catching in her throat.
“My— my father, painted these pictures, and he is also somewhat of— of a physicker, a splicer. I’m sure you know he’s up there, in the dungeon?” She pointed self-consciously to the wooden ceiling. “Self-imposed isolation. He’s afraid of ailments, you see, among other things. He once explained to me about the four humours, the biles. And the elements of fire, and water. Air, of course.” She had almost told the girl, right then, that the castellan often accused his own daughter of having traces of melancholy in her blood, so prone was she to gloomy moods, but the chatelaine managed, at least, to not blurt this out. At a loss for further words, however, she stood awkwardly, regarding her pets, feeling like she had already said too much. The empty cage taunted her. Something had just happened here, in the alcove. Something had shifted between her and the kholic. Then, as soon as she accepted once more that she really didn’t understand Octavia at all, the girl leaned forward and kissed the chatelaine on the lips. When the chatelaine opened her mouth, their tongues twined. She pulled the girl closer, ran her hands down Octavia’s back to her buttocks, where they stopped. The chatelaine was already wet. She tried to lift Octavia’s shift off, but the girl, breaking away, did it herself. As the garment rose, exposing the stunning body, the chatelaine’s breath was finally stolen.
She raised shaking hands, worshipping.
Her pets again went mad.
Ambassadors buzzed Pan Renik, lashing whenever they could at his exposed face and hands with their wire tails. Unable to defend himself (and knowing enough in his state of delirium not to even make an effort), the exile lay on his side, in his nest, moaning as he struggled to hold onto his rather limited senses. When he opened an eye, just a crack, wire tails caught at his skin and made him whimper.
One ambassador hovered a few centimetres before his face. Wings a blur of silver, it was there every time he looked, as if studying him, or maybe waiting. He peeked: still there. The tails beat at him. Never before had Pan Renik seen a single ambassador this close—usually only hordes of the messengers going about their business on high, or giving padres instructions from the sky.
Sap trickled his forehead.
If he had not known better, Pan Renik would have been certain that the ambassador was made of metal, for it shimmered, and reflected his marred face. But padres told the people that Anu and his countless minions were composed of polymers. Bio-engineered polymers that even—
Look what have you done.
For a second, Pan Renik thought the voice might be his own conscience; his conscience had spoken to him in the past, in various voices and from several sources, internal and external. But this voice was somehow different.
Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Everything was calibrated: her crash, her wounds. She was meant to remain alive.
The ambassador, he realized, addressed him: this voice was no conscience. But ambassadors only spoke to padres—and to Anu, of course. Yet what other explanation could there be?
Humbled, Pan Renik accepted the pain and asked, “What did I do? Why are you here?”
Small fissures and cracks in the little round face, but no mouth, no feature at all that could be considered a mouth. Several wings on the back end. Sharp, dangling legs. The size of his fist.
The ambassador did not respond.
Pan Renik struggled, without much success, to sit up.
Perhaps a dozen of Anu’s emissaries had gathered in the air about him, including the one facing him, the one that seemed to be communicating. Others worked on his limbs, slashing at them. His arms and legs were covered in growing welts. His face burned.
When the ambassador spoke again, it radiated a mild heat. This heat was, in its own way, like another wire, twisting in Pan Renik’s brain:
Anu is interested.
Each syllable stung as the ambassadors circled around, no doubt to get better shots, to strike at his forearms, his forehead, the bottoms of his poor feet.
He tried not to flinch. “Interested in me?”
Yes.
“How can that be? I’m the exile.”
She came up from the clouds.
“What?”
The one you attacked. She came up from under the clouds.
“That would be a miracle.”
Yes. A miracle. Exactly. A miracle, until you killed her. Now Anu is coming. He is far away, but he is coming here.
“Anu? For me?” Pan Renik saw now that the woman’s body was there still, in his nest. He touched the corpse with his toes. The metal also remained. He could not imagine how he could have been left alone with these treasures, or why.
Now the power was going to visit.
Nor could he imagine a way out of this situation.
Though Pan Renik knew he had not been unconscious for long, daylight had grown stronger since he had cracked open the woman’s skull. Black sap marred her face. Her mask was broken. In this early sunlight, all metal tubes and the remains of her flying device glittered more than they had before, when he had first laid eyes on them. He reached out toward one of the rods but instead, trembling, his grubby fingers came to rest
on his mace, still sticky with the woman’s fluids.
Circling ambassadors renewed whipping his exposed skin.
You need to tell us what she told you. We saw her speak to you. Anu needs to know.
Those wire tails inflamed the skin on the back of his hands, on his face and neck. “She said nothing. So leave me alone. I mean, did she do this to me? Or did you? How did I get like this?” He wiped sap from his face with one hand, then looked beyond the ambassadors, toward the horizon, where it was already full day.
Idiot! She tried to defend herself. What do you think? Her suit gave off a jolt when you bludgeoned her.
A pause just then. Silence. The wire tails froze in mid-lash so that only the very low buzz of the ambassador’s wings could be heard. Pan Renik’s wounds during this interim stung with renewed throbs of this intense pain. Could he fight the tiny emissaries of Anu? Polymer, the padres said, was tough. And there were so many! If he did fight, would that assure his own death? Either way, he could not take a renewed round of lashes.
We would like to inform you, the ambassador said, Anu approaches the vicinity now. Prepare yourself. You’ll be interviewed, and recycled.
Refraining from defending himself had achieved nothing. He would be recycled.
Far below came faint shouts of the padres, rising from lower branches, as if they too had heard the proclamation. Had padres watched all the while? No doubt they had grown more and more concerned. Why were ambassadors of the sky, they must have wondered, talking to a citizen? To the exile, no less! And attacking him? What in the world had Pan Renik done? How had he messed up this time?
Managing to sit, then, smeared by his own sap, condemned to die, Pan Renik suddenly smiled; ironically, he had found an inadvertent way to get revenge on the settlement, to spoil the lives of the padres. He felt a surge of energy, and he used this energy to stand.
Take it easy, said the ambassador.
So, Pan Renik thought. He would be recycled. Life was over. Everything was over. If not killed by Anu, then killed by padres. All for stupid pieces of metal.
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