by Peter Newman
Silvered wings stretch to either side of the sword’s hilt, revealing a closed eye that twitches madly.
The sword’s sound shakes the very essence of those unfortunate enough to hear it, pure, otherworldly, too much for a mortal to control. Breath begins to burn. Panicked, the young man tries to close his mouth but finds he cannot. The note distorts, twisted by rage, by grief. The air becomes fire and lightning, noise and fury.
An eye opens.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
In First Circle, rumours dance. Names are brushed with slander, with truth and moved on to partners new. Dark mutterings rise and fall with the waves, intensifying when Yuren’s call comes. The Council wishes to address its people, summoning them to the base of the tower.
At midday, the people answer. The background hum of countless engines fades to quiet, giving the sea its voice once more. Pilots step from their boats, passengers unpack themselves from the hold and en masse they go, uncertain streams pouring into the central courtyard, each from a different street, running together, unwilling to mix.
Worried faces pack the surrounding space and nearby houses, some lean from windows or squish together on grassy rooftops. Guards move protectively in groups of four, patrolling the perimeter. Axler stands ready, lance charging in his hands.
A figure appears on the tower’s high balcony. His head is nearly bald, reflecting spots of red and gold. To those on the ground he is indistinct, small, remote. Amplifiers bring his voice to the assembled, smoothing over cracks, adding gravitas.
Yuren begins: ‘People of First Circle, I bring sad news. Yesterday a matter was brought before me. A terrible business. Even here, on our little floating island, it seems we are not free from abuse or crime.’ The great disc rocks gently, as if moved by the words. Yuren is forced to grip the railings as he continues. ‘Not only is there corruption on board ship, corruption that hurts our most innocent, but that corruption goes through every level of our society, right to its core.’
Words sink in but another greater wave steals their effect. This more literal force rocks First Circle, making people stumble into one another, like dominoes fighting for balance. Even as senses recover, something rises from the depths, ascending alongside First Circle. Water runs down its sides, giving shape. The new vessel is a relic of the Empire, a Wavemaker, its blunt nose angling thirty metres high, the rest cloaked in ocean. Other ships follow it up from the depths, smaller, each bearing modified symbols of the Winged Eye. On one the wings have been scratched away, on another the eye is painted over, forced shut. A third is covered by scores of bloody hand prints. There are seven in all, spread evenly around First Circle, surrounding, intercepting hope.
Axler’s voice punctuates shock, scrambling guards into defensive positions.
A short distance across the water, the ships wait. They bear no flags. Broken swords hang above the decks, suspended from cables. The wind makes them chime, off key and eerie. Silence stretches and cannons slide from hatches, massive, mocking the tiny rifles held against them.
High above, two sky-ships drop from cloak, circling, full stops on a declaration of superiority. From one of them a lone figure climbs into view. Loose cut clothes sit over skintight body armour. Hard plastic covers the face, giving nothing away. No weapons are evident and yet there is a sense of threat in its manner, polite but present. As the crowds watch it leaves the safety of the cockpit. Sure steps carry it across the wing, untroubled by wind pulling at sleeves. Eventually, it stands high above First Circle’s edge. With a performer’s timing, arms are raised.
It jumps.
Several people look away, not wishing to see the landing.
Impact.
Legs bend into a crouch, absorbing the force, not breaking. Standing, the figure pulls off the mask, turning to allow all a good view. Half of its head is bald and ridden with old scars. Hair flows from the other half like streamers in the wind, white, grey and black. Behind it the sky-ships descend slowly, two butterflies that sit, watchful, a few metres above the water.
‘I am the First,’ it shouts. ‘And I am not human.’ It pauses, letting fear travel. ‘I have come here to make you an offer. I hope you will appreciate my candour. A quality I often find lacking among your … people.’
‘Go ahead,’ replies Axler, voice amplifiers emphasizing his disgust.
‘I did not come to this …’ the First waves a hand, searching for inspiration ‘… shape, by choice. To survive I was forced to seek a host, one of your kind. Or, rather, many hosts, since no single one of your physical structures is enough to sustain me. But this one, the primary body.’ It places its palms across its chest. ‘This one, was damaged when I claimed it. As you know, we came to you in a place of war, a time of chaos. I have sustained this body up till now but the time is coming when I will need a … replacement.’
‘Never!’ shouts Axler.
The First regards him for a long moment, and then gives a bow. ‘You are a man that knows his mind. I acknowledge that. But this offer is for everyone here and I have not yet made it. If you change your mind after hearing me, I will understand.’
‘I want to hear it,’ says a voice from the crowd.
‘And so you shall,’ replies the First. ‘Simply put, I need one of you to be a receptacle for my essence. They must be unsullied by any of my kin, pure. That individual’s being will be subsumed and will, as you understand it, become … me.’ It pauses again. ‘In return I will gift the rest of you with smaller portions of my essence. Those recipients will be changed in other ways. They will be connected to me but distinct. Independent but never alone. They will also enjoy extended life spans, the ability to supersede their fellows in physical contests. They could, for example, duplicate my jump onto this ship. They will share my spectrum of perception and be able to control their old senses more directly. Disease will not threaten them again, nor will mediocrity.
‘I am not the Usurper, I do not seek to subjugate you. Neither am I the Uncivil, I do not seek to control you. Nor am I like The Seven, who accept your loyalty and leave you to die. I am the First and I believe that we can coexist. Together we are strong enough to live a different way, beholden neither to my kin in the South or your masters in the North. There is a price. I will repeat it: One of you must give yourself to me, willingly and without coercion. That person will cease to be. In return I will give that life back to you tenfold.’
Whispers begin, tentative. Individuals seek to know their neighbour’s minds without revealing their own.
Axler steps forward, pointing his lance towards the First. ‘That thing is a monster and if anybody approaches it, they’ll have to answer to me.’ He addresses his guards. ‘Hold. Hold the line. Nobody crosses it on either side without my permission.’
Guards form up as Axler fights his way to the line. The goat does not follow, watching from a safer distance.
‘Also,’ the First adds. ‘I am loyal to those who deal with me. You hold a … friend of ours. His name is Roget. You will return him immediately or I will be forced to demonstrate my loyalty. You do not want that.’
The Vagrant stands at the back of the crowd, battered coat blending, easy to miss. Those who know seek him out, pushing their way to his side. Among them number a half dozen children. Their dull eyes trail after a boy called Chalk. The others are lean, professional survivors, led by three sisters from Slake.
He glances at them. Frowns. Worries settle on his shoulders, get comfortable.
Beyond the press of people, beyond the ring of guards, he sees Axler squaring off with the First. Soon, it will break, one way or the other. From his vantage point he scans the crowd, noting groups, the shifting stances. Weighing the mood. He takes a step forward, hesitates. There are many expressions on display, none friendly.
Harm arrives at his back, Vesper hoisted on one hip. He leans in close, lips brushing the Vagrant’s ear, keen to keep their secrets. ‘We have to go, now. Genner knows a way, we can escape.’
The Vagrant tur
ns, and Harm gestures to the young guard loitering in a nearby alley, uniform far from formation, conspicuous.
‘Come on.’
The Vagrant looks at those who gather close to them, looks back at Harm.
‘I don’t know, we’ll take as many as we can. But it has to be now.’ The green-eyed man tugs at his sleeve.
He looks at the First, then to Genner and back again.
The sword shakes in its sheath, wingtips drumming his thigh. He clenches the hilt, muffling with his fist. It pulls at his arm, keen to attack; Harm pulls at the other.
The Vagrant closes his eyes.
Gentle undulations pass under the boat’s surface, encouraging. Samael works quietly, using currents and winds and sailor’s intuition to close the gap between them and their prey. Dedication is total but sometimes muscles are misplaced. A jaw falls slack, flapping in the wind, a sphincter loosens, a tongue lolls.
The commander watches him, noting the signs. He has seen this before. It’s the world beating down on them, growing angrier with each passing day, driving their essence deeper within their shells. The further north they go, the worse it will become. It would be good to catch the Malice soon, before it slips from reach completely.
Samael signals him even as he senses it: another enemy, stronger than him, more numerous, known. He joins his servant by the prow and stares at the horizon, willing shapes to appear.
Soon, they do.
Seven war ships surround his prize and around them a web of essence, spread thin across those on the boats and thinner to those beyond. It is the Thousand Cuts, the Unbound, the Nomad King, the First. It is here in force if not totality.
The commander orders a wide berth be given, returning some distance so recently fought for.
But even at a distance, the First will notice them sooner or later. The commander ponders what to do next, aware that time is running out.
He remembers Patchwork, remembers its stealthy approach in Verdigris – and suddenly a wash of memories surface, not his own. He remembers the technique required to dampen essence, remembers teaching it to her Southern Duke – the commander snarls – not her Southern Duke, not hers! He is not her! He cuts the memory free of the Uncivil’s associations, lifting only necessary knowledge away. Calm returns. He orders Samael to silence the engine.
Power cut, the boat moves slowly, drawn by waves alone. Samael continues his work while the commander lies out of sight, veiling their essence, softening, darkening.
Gone.
A second figure joins Yuren on the balcony, taller, thinner, a scarecrow next to a pumpkin.
Roget clears his throat. ‘I am here.’
Far below, on deck, the First raises a hand in greeting.
Yuren steps forward, tentative, and addresses the assembled. ‘For years we asked for help and none came. Even if we manage to cross the sea, there’s no guarantee The Seven will help us. We’ve come this far alone but if we are to survive that has to change. Our engines are overtaxed, our rations stretched to their limits. There is only one road before us that guarantees our safety.’ He turns to look at the First. ‘And so, in my capacity as Councilman, and on behalf of everyone on this ship, I accept your offer.’
The red on Axler’s face turns to purple. ‘You’ve sold us out!’
Yuren looks at Axler, imploring. ‘Councillor, this is what you wanted too. You have been against going to the Shining City from the start, as was Roget. The First is offering us a chance at life. Stand with me. Together we can make this work.’
The leaders of First Circle argue, words carried high over heads, booming, thunderous above the hot mutterings of the crowd. Tension grows, becoming unbearable until Axler spits on the floor. He stabs a finger at the infernal. ‘Get yourself and the rest of your infected friends off my ship.’
The First walks towards Axler, arms low and submissive, hands open. ‘But your leader has already accepted; by what authority do you reverse this?’
‘I speak for every right-minded, untainted person on this ship!’ Axler makes a signal, secret, and guards prepare themselves for action.
‘Do you? It seems to me you speak only for yourself.’
‘Looks like we’re about to find out.’ Axler swings the lance into line with the First’s chest. ‘You’ve got exactly five seconds to turn around and go back to wherever you came from.’
As the First replies, Axler’s lips shape numbers, counting down silently.
‘If you truly speak for the people here, put it to them. If the majority agree with you, I will leave without another word and I will take Yuren and Roget with me. If they do not, then you will give yourself—’
Fire surges from the lance. ‘Five!’
Even as Axler’s finger is squeezing, the First is moving, fast enough to race the flames. Heat explodes in the space where the First was, the edges of it reaching out to lick at a retreating arm, catching a flowing sleeve. Axler has time to look surprised; the infernal weaving around the stream of fire and underneath his lance. Fabric bursts alight, making a tail behind the First’s palm as it slams, open, into Axler’s side. In sympathy, ribs and armour crack together. The lance goes quiet and its bearer falls to the floor.
Ignoring the flames creeping over its shoulder, the First moves forward for a second attack.
A lone guard, a lowly private, steps up behind the First. Grabbing a flaming wrist in both hands, she shouts: ‘Help!’
Before anyone else, the First responds. Twisting a captured arm it grabs Private Ro by the elbow, making their hold mutual. Its free hand blurs against Ro’s body, drilling into her stomach till she hangs limp, a long sack full of broken bones.
The guards hesitate, lacking the conviction to finish what their captain started.
But Captain Axler is not quite finished. He speaks from his position on the floor, amplifiers catching every rattle and bubble in his throat. ‘Attack. Attack together.’ He reaches for his lance but finds that someone has kicked it away.
Boots appear alongside, disrespectful, too close. He tilts his head back to see behind, and finds betrayal, inverted. He sees First Circle citizens all around him and a crowd gathering behind his guards.
His people raise their rifles, ready to fight at last, unaware they are facing the wrong way.
Like a great wave, the crowd crashes over the line of guards, sucking them under, crushing underfoot.
Before they reach him, strong hands slide under his body, lifting him high.
The First raises Axler above its head, a wriggling trophy. ‘People of First Circle, I accept your offer. There is but one … obstacle that stands between us now. I wish for peace but the Seraph bring only noise and hate. You harbour one, one with the longest and sharpest of tongues. Reveal him to me.’
An image projects into the air. It shows a static man, unimpressive, his long coat worn by travel, his face weather-aged.
‘He was here!’ shouts a voice from the back. The crowd parts quickly, revealing nothing but an empty alleyway and the back end of a goat, fleeing the scene.
Despite everything, Axler finds strength for one last smile.
They run, footsteps echoing through empty streets. Though Vesper is carried, her feet move in sympathy with the others.
When they reach Deke’s boat, the engines are already running, prow out to sea. Without a word, they pile on, packing along the wings, each additional body pushing the boat a little lower. Deke casts off as the last one joins them.
By the time the goat catches up, a space yawns between First Circle and escape. The goat’s eyes narrow. She doesn’t slow down, glare fixed on her target. Hooves kick on plasteel, then air, as she sails over the water, a meteor, malevolent.
Vesper points, delighted. ‘G—’
Her shadow falls across the Vagrant who turns, too slow to escape fate.
‘—oat!’
Man becomes crash mat and the boat rocks, water spraying up, dappling faces.
While things settle, Harm crawls closer to th
e cockpit. ‘What’s the plan?’
Deke swings the boat around, threading between the waiting warships and First Circle’s curves, a lizard slipping under the noses of lions. Two sky-ships come into view. ‘That’s the plan.’
The nearest one notices their approach and a pilot steps out, weapon in hand.
Genner’s rifle fires twice, silent, silencing.
No more challenges come and they dock, unloading from one vessel into another quickly.
Deke whispers into his hand and his boat turns in the water, facing the other sky-ship. He pats the controls affectionately and climbs aboard alongside Genner. Hands move expertly and the sky-ship trembles, readying for flight.
Harm watches them from a corner, his face hidden behind two elbows and a shoulder. ‘You’ve done this before.’
‘Nope,’ replies Deke. ‘Never stole a sky-ship before!’
Genner laughs. Harm doesn’t.
As they push heavily into the air, Deke’s old boat speeds towards the remaining sky-ship, engines brightening, until the glow hurts to watch. The older, flightless bird collides with her younger cousin. The explosion is loud, satisfying. Vesper covers her ears.
Below them seven warships wake, cannons humming to life, eager for attention.
Too burdened to dodge, the sky-ship relies on her shields for survival. Many of the shots fly wide, many don’t. Each collision saps the protective light, drawing on precious reserves. By the time they fly clear, worried bleeps sound from flashing displays.
Overloaded, underpowered, the sky-ship travels on, till flying becomes gliding, till gliding becomes falling.
CHAPTER THIRTY
From a distance the sky-ship appears graceful, skimming across the water, a stone cast by a playful god. Inside, each bounce is magnified. Heads and knees bash against walls, against each other. Bruises bloom and distress sounds loud, filling the cramped space. The bounces get smaller and more frequent until, at last, the sky-ship merely drifts.