by Peter Newman
Together, the children answer, voices light, harmonic. ‘Vesper.’
When Sir Phia walks by them, the children kneel, the adults too. Only Vesper fails to swap enthusiasm for humility. She points at each child, naming, one after another, their identities broadcast into her brain.
The Vagrant walks on, a smudge against the open landscape, a stain in an otherwise sparkling crowd.
Ahead of him rises the sanctum of The Seven.
He keeps his head down, keeps Vesper close.
A small boy and a purple skinned man help Samael roll the barrel through Verdigris’ streets. All three sweat. Ahead of them a man walks, his clothes shapeless and filled with oddities. Sweat has not found him for a long time.
Alone, Samael could not manage the burden. While his essence continues to be changed within, the link between mind and body suffers and movement becomes grotesque. Frequent twitches possess limbs, making them dance, the movements surreal, alien.
‘Hey!’ calls a voice, deep and booming. It belongs to a Usurperkin dressed in a marshal’s uniform.
The group stop.
‘What’s this?’
‘Ah,’ answers the leader, a smile materializing on his face. ‘Max, protector of small people! It has been too long.’
Max scratches between his hair spikes. ‘Do I know you?’
‘Next to goods of such quality, Ezze is easily forgotten.’
Puzzlement is personified on Max’s face. He points at the barrel. ‘What’s this?’
‘Ah you have keen eye. Surely this is why you have such important job. Come closer and Ezze show you. You like shit, yes?’
‘Yeah … What?’
‘The shit. You like? The finest droppings from the north, all from people and all untainted. For you Ezze will give a cup half price!’
Large green hands raise, as if warding off the barrel’s contents. ‘Ugh, no!’
‘You sure, friend? It will sell like hot …’ Ezze pauses theatrically and then laughs, long and hard. ‘Still no? Well, do not say that Ezze did not try!’ He starts to walk on. ‘Come, come, roll faster! Your pay is not by the hour!’
With weary sighs the boy, the half-breed and Samael get back to work.
‘Stop!’ says Max.
‘You change your mind? Ezze knew you were a smart one!’
‘No. You said that came from the north.’
‘All true.’
‘And we’re not letting anything in from the north anymore. Tough Call said so.’
‘You see!’ shouts Ezze to the three by the barrel. ‘This is exactly what I was saying to the boy earlier. Ezze try to explain but he is young and not clever like you Marshal Max. Of course no trade from north of Verdigris, that would be Necro shit. And no good fruit comes from that!’ He smacks the boy across the ear.
‘Ow!’
‘Stupid child! Of course that is not what is here. No, friend, this fine barrel comes from the north of the north!’
‘The north … of the north?’
‘Just so! Already you understand. North of the north are fine lands, with the finest shit for growing crops. There is much demand for such things now food is scarce, yes?’
‘Yeah …’
‘Well, this has been good, Marshal Max, but time is against us. Ah! Before Ezze goes, would you do something?’
‘What?’
Ezze pulls a box from within the folds of his robe. The purple skinned man stares at it, envious. ‘For your sister.’
‘Maxi?’
‘You have other sisters?’
‘Uh, no.’
‘Marshal Maxi then.’
‘What is it?’
‘More of the best, with Ezze’s thanks. Tell her to smoke slower this time and to sit down first!’
‘Right, I’ll do that.’
‘Goodbye then. And if you wish to sample what is inside, a little pinch will not be missed.’ Ezze winks and then rushes away, leaving Max to smile hopefully at the box. When the Usurperkin is left far behind, Ezze slaps Samael on the shoulder. ‘And that, friend, is why Ezze’s escort is worth paying for!’
The group move on, taking back alleys and abandoned streets, until at last they come to the south gate. Pre-paid guards are quick to turn, blind eyed, and the barrel is taken out of the city without trouble.
Outside, they heave a sack from the barrel, grunting as they load it onto a waiting wheelbarrow. ‘What is this, a body of some kind? No, do not answer, you are a quiet man. I know ones like you. Say little, pay well. Ezze respect that. Good luck in your business,’ he taps the side of his nose. ‘Whatever it may be.’
Samael murmurs a thanks through too-pale lips and walks away, pushing the barrow in front of him.
‘Ha!’ says Ezze, turning to the barrel as soon as Samael has gone. ‘And now the newest Deadtech in Verdigris belongs to Ezze! Bruise, you take the Heartmaker, hide it in the bag, and little Ez, you carry all the small things.’
‘And what will you carry, father?’
‘The burden of family! Now hurry, get them out.’
Bruise opens the second door inside the barrel, the secret one, and plunges his hands inside. His face falls and there is the sound of jelly sucking down a plughole. Little Ez peeks in, then runs off to be sick.
‘A little death too much for you? Get out Ezze’s treasures already!’
‘But, father,’ says the boy, wiping his mouth. ‘There’s no treasure there, just a load of rotting meat.’
Ezze’s hand hovers, eager to teach but the mystery draws it away. He examines the barrel, finds nothing but wires and necrotic soup. For a few moments he is speechless. ‘… But Ezze saw the Deadtech with his own eyes … He showed us all … It was of the highest quality … So much money to be made …’
Little Ez’s eyes go worried wide. ‘Father, are you dying?’
‘Dying? If only Ezze were dying, then he wouldn’t have to feel the dreams of prosperity fading away.’ He sighs, seeming to deflate to a man half his size. ‘Remember, Little Ez, this is why you trust nobody. Nobody! Except your good father.’
The Seven’s sanctum is a cube of silver-steel a mile across, suspended seventy feet above ground. No wires hold it there, no supports are necessary. It turns, achingly slow, never stopping, moved by altered physics.
A procession approaches, led by Sir Phia. The Vagrant, Vesper and what seems like half of the city follow. As they get closer awe slows their steps. One by one, they stop, citizens first, then squires, leaving the others to continue alone.
An armoured man awaits. Beneath the splendid helm he is middle aged, made thin by a diet of stress and adrenaline. To his right is a woman, equally thin, though for different reasons. Her cloak falls like a set of wings across her shoulders. Beneath it she is hairless and the toes that peek from the hem are without nails.
Sir Phia kneels before them, addressing the woman first. ‘Obeisance.’ Then the man. ‘Knight Commander. I have it.’
The Vagrant raises an eyebrow.
‘Good,’ replies the Knight Commander, his sour face struggling to accommodate the good news. ‘We must send it to The Seven immediately.’
‘No,’ says Obeisance. ‘The filth of the world must be washed away first.’
The Knight Commander lowers his voice. ‘They will already know it is here. Is it wise to keep Them waiting?’
‘There is a reason why my family has held this honour longer than any other. We never take risks.’
‘I defer to your judgement, Obeisance.’
Sir Phia looks worried. ‘Should I take the time to refresh my armour?’
Her seniors look at each other, half amused. ‘And why,’ asks the Knight Commander, ‘should you do that?’
‘Sir?’
‘You don’t honestly think that you will go anywhere near The Seven do you? After years in the Blasted Lands? You’re lucky we let you back into civilization at all.’ He studies her, dispassionate. ‘Perhaps you could do with cleaning up. I understand you have sent your sub
ordinates for purging. Consider your duties discharged and join them.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Also, a man was retrieved from Slake who has not reported in for testing, nor is he mentioned in your report. I trust you can explain.’
‘The report only focuses on the primary objectives of the mission, Sir. A full account is pending your pleasure.’
‘My pleasure is it? Well then you should know that what pleases me more than anything else is detail. I will look forward to reading your full report shortly … In the meantime kindly produce this …’ eyes look up and to the right, accessing secret data. ‘… Jaden, and submit him to the proper authorities before he infects anyone. As I understand it his chances of survival are even less than yours.’
Sir Phia closes her eyes for the briefest moment. ‘Yes, Sir.’
He flicks a finger, dismissing her. ‘Obeisance, I will leave the preparations in your capable hands and meet you here in an hour?’
She leans down to study Vesper. In turn she looks up at her bald head, mouth sagging in amazement.
‘Shiny!’
The Vagrant bites his lip.
Obeisance ignores the comment, turns to study the Vagrant. ‘Better make it two.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Obeisance walks alone up the steps. Once, her family was larger, the role shared with brothers and sisters. Duty has thinned them out. One by one, they gave themselves in service to the Winged Eye. Her remaining siblings are too weak now, their minds transcendent, bodies fit only for breeding. She has inspected the next generation carefully, found them wanting. It will be many years before they can stand in her place and already her body struggles, hollowed by The Seven’s love.
She has two hours to prepare them for Gamma’s return. Lips shape into a curse as she rounds the corner. She should have asked for more.
They say the sanctum has been silent all these years. That The Seven weep without sound; tears of stone that flow, thickening, deadening.
They are wrong.
She hears the disharmony. Even now the sounds stir in her mind, thrumming bones, whittling spirit.
For too long the inner doors have been closed, sealed with grief. She kneels before them, pressing her head against the smooth outer layer of stone. Panic is pushed away, trapped within clenched fists. Breath is mastered, fear marshalled. The duty will be done.
‘I am here,’ she says. ‘Let me take it, let me taste it. Burden me.’
The Vagrant leans back in the bath, eyes closed. Cool water vents against his newly dressed thigh. Vesper sits next to him, making waves.
‘Splash!’
Around them, a thin layer of scum and salt collects, making water opaque.
A servant creeps around the edge of the bath, gathering clothes. He is careful to hold them at arm’s length. Battered boots, a coat aged by dirt and combat, encrusted with old smells. The servant’s nose wrinkles in retreat. He turns to go but something has attached to his sleeve, stopping him.
The Vagrant makes eye contact, shakes his head.
‘You actually want these?’
The Vagrant nods.
‘Oh.’
The clothes are returned, though piled neater than before. Before the servant can stand up again, water slaps him on the ear.
‘Splash!’
He turns to find the Vagrant, apologetic, hands up. Mustering calm, he returns to his post by the door. After a minute his eyes close, his breathing forced into rhythm. The servant sways slightly but doesn’t fall.
Another minute and the door slides open, shushing, slow, just enough to allow a hooded figure entrance.
The Vagrant sits up hastily, water rides high, full of energy, Vesper rides with it.
‘Splash! Splash! Splash!’
A nail-less finger raises, demanding calm, then pulls back the hood. The Vagrant’s face shows surprise for a second time, then he tries to bow. This is not easy. Between the bath, his injured leg and Vesper, the gesture is unrecognizable.
Vesper waves at the newcomer. ‘Shiny!’
‘Be at peace,’ Obeisance says quickly. ‘This is not an official visit.’
The Vagrant does not relax.
‘I felt we should talk privately. It’s important that you know how the last few years have been for The Seven. Whatever happens, the reunion must go smoothly. We cannot afford another lapse.’ Obeisance opens her hands as she thinks. They flutter like featherless wings. ‘For a thousand years The Seven have watched over us and for more than half that time my family has served them. We are bred carefully to keep the prominent features of our bloodline, so I look much like my mother, and her mother, and so on. If you were to walk the halls you’d find a statue dedicated to my office. The young acolytes often think it was made for me.’ A memory touches her lips, bringing the faintest smile. ‘In fact it was created in honour of my eleventh great-grandmother. You see, The Seven have come to hate change. It pains them in ways we cannot possibly fathom. I believe it is because They have known perfection, seen the Empire of the Winged Eye at its peak. They are the last beings to have basked in the Creator’s shadow. For them, each new discovery is a shift away from what should be. Even our greatest achievements are aberrations of a prior glory.’ She notices the movement of her hands and, on reflex, kills the motion. ‘Since Gamma’s fall, The Seven have turned even further inward. Their pain is …’ Just once, she shudders. ‘Beyond comprehension.’
The Vagrant’s mouth begins to form a word, stops. Lips press together.
‘The Seven are beyond us. Nobody can predict how they will respond when you return Gamma’s sword. I don’t know how much of her remains within it. Let us pray it is enough.’ She turns and stares directly at the Vagrant. ‘You must ensure that it is. You must make this a success.’
She bows, though whether the deference is directed to man or sword is unclear, then slips away. The Vagrant watches her go, his hand rests on the side of the bath. Fingers curl slowly into a trembling fist.
Seconds later the servant’s head jerks up, suddenly awake. He blinks twice, blushes, and straightens.
‘Dada?’
The Vagrant attends to Vesper.
‘Dada?’
The Vagrant nods.
‘Dada?’
Again the Vagrant nods. A stream of bubbles appear on the surface of the water. Vesper points at the Vagrant.
‘Dada!’
Eyebrows raise, indignant. Vesper laughs and laughs, until at last, the Vagrant smiles and joy rings from the walls.
The Vagrant stands in fresh clothes, awkward. Vesper pulls at hers, unable to remove them.
‘Better,’ declares Obeisance, much to the relief of the staff. ‘Though it will not be accompanying us, I had your goat seen to. She will be bred with local stock to improve taint resistance.’
The goat is brought out. Rarely has she looked so clean, or so dangerous.
‘Goat?’
The goat gives her a black look.
‘Goat!’ repeats Vesper with confidence.
‘Come, it is time. You wish to take the child?’
The Vagrant nods and they go.
‘Bye bye goat.’
They return to the ground beneath the sanctum. Already there, the Knight Commander waits by a staircase, silver wrought. Each step is thirty feet across, one foot high. There are forty nine in total. The last step leads only to air, the great cube floating high above.
‘Scary isn’t it?’ says the Knight Commander. ‘They say that The Seven carry you the last of the way, so you have to put your faith in them. Not everyone makes it.’ He watches Obeisance walk past. ‘She’s been doing this since she was about your girl’s age. I’ve only had to for the last five years but we both agree, it never gets easier.’
Like pilgrims, they ascend. The Vagrant’s injuries force him to move slowly. Obeisance is the first to reach the highest step. She does not break stride, toes spreading in the open air to find purchase. Behind her the two men stop and stare.
The Vagrant picks Vesper up, rests her on his hip. He draws the sword with his other hand, watching the tiny wings as they unfurl, moved by different currents. He holds the blade out over the edge, feeling the firm tug. The Vagrant looks down, looks up again quickly.
‘This is as good as it gets. Best to go now.’
Little hands cling to the Vagrant’s arm, pinching skin.
A glance back reveals the Knight Commander, still waiting. The Vagrant’s lips shape a prayer, he takes a deep breath … and steps out.
Vesper buries her head in the Vagrant’s chest.
The air is not solid but there is resistance. With spongy strides, the Vagrant goes up. He focuses on the cube, muscles tight with tension. One step, then another, fighting the urge to look down. As they get closer, details emerge on the side of the cube. A lip juts out below an archway, inviting, the back of Obeisance’s cloak already vanishing through it.
They follow her in, arriving in a small antechamber. Doors behind them slide closed, sealing the room. Obeisance tries to open the doors opposite but they are blocked, forcing them to wait. Noises come from beyond, tapping, cracking, the labour of many people.
Obeisance counts, face creasing in concern.
The sounds get louder, coming from the base of the door.
Time ticks by.
Vesper yawns.
The door crunches open, stopping halfway. Obeisance steps through, beckoning the others. They arrive in a larger chamber carpeted in stone. People in skinsuits and glowing collars work to chip it away by hand. Some are attached to the wall, some squat down, attending to the floor. As fast as they work, the stone grows back like a weed, stubborn and grey.
The Knight Commander pauses at the entrance. ‘It’s getting worse isn’t it?’
‘The Seven descend deeper into silence but we care for Them as we have ever done.’
‘Have you ever seen it this bad before?’
‘There is no “bad” when one is tending The Seven, Knight Commander. Let us continue.’
As they step onto the living stone an eye opens, taking in details. Soon, the sword tremors in the Vagrant’s hand. By the time they reach the door to The Seven’s chamber, the sword is raging. Around it, air shimmers and hums.