He walked into the emptied hall and called out, “I’m here. Come see me.” He laughed again and ran his hand across one of the pillars to his right. It felt smooth to the touch, made of polished stone, marble perhaps.
A voice echoed into the room. “Boris, pass through the double doors, and I will guide you.”
Boris moved to the double doors behind the throne. He hesitated. What lay behind the doors? The empire of the Elo-Talern—but what was it like? Visions sprang into his mind: a wondrous space of light and calm, but were then quickly replaced by other, darker images of shadows in blackness.
He pulled on the double doors and they creaked toward him. A long corridor led away.
“This way,” the voice rustled from somewhere farther along the corridor.
Boris continued on. Some opened out into vast ancient eating rooms, filled with chaises longues and tables, or ballrooms decorated with statues arranged just so, or gaming rooms with carefully arranged chess sets and dice tables. The rooms followed one after another, a vast complex. Rotting rugs and cushions lay strewn about the place, collecting dust and mold. Beside them lay strewn empty amphorae. Thick rugs hung from the walls, their once glorious colors—reds and golds and sky blues—now barely discernible beneath the gray dust. Yet others rooms were filled with empty pools, their mosaic tiles cracked. Indoor fountains, their water long gone, stood close to broken statues. In its time, the place would have been lush and magnificent. People would have lounged and played, paddled in the baths, drunk from fountains’ amphorae. Here they would once have held all-night parties. Now the place was just the shattered remnants of an ancient pleasure palace, emptied by vast stretches of time. There was something sad about its abandonment, which intimated the passing of all things. The main passageway continued on into the gloom. No longer was it a place of pleasure or laughter.
“Now, left,” the disembodied voice of the Elo-Talern called.
Boris turned at an intersection. The corridor led into a large room filled with a series of baths, some larger than others, all connected by small channels filled with fetid black water. Unknown shapes floated in the pools. Were they the rotten corpses of birds or other small animals? The room reeked of death.
Something moved in one of the nearby pools. The water churned as something floated to the surface: a cadaverous face, like a horse’s withered skull pushing from beneath a burial ground.
The Elo-Talern stood, the water coursing down her naked torso, her breasts, withered things over a far-too-long rib cage. “It’s good for my joints, the water. Won’t you come in?”
Boris looked at the rank water, the floating bits of matter on the surface. He looked up toward the ceiling. “I have unified the Houses to crush this insurgency. I have put the pieces together. I think I am ready to be made Director.”
The Elo-Talern flickered into its cadaverous form and then was gone, just like that, from the pool. One moment she had been there, and then—flick-absent from the space. He blinked, silent. A couple of seconds later she appeared several feet closer to him. The water in the pool displaced around her, churning. Again, she was gone. Boris took an involuntary step back. For a long time, nothing stirred.
The cadaverous face burst into the air next to his, horselike and horrible, its teeth large, its eyes gigantic, its voice whispering in his ear. “Oh, I know, Officiate Autec.”
She moved slowly behind him; water dripped onto the tiled floor. He remained as still as a statue. Her head craned in, close to the left hand side of his face and her spidery and huge hand rested on the opposite shoulder. He felt water on his skin.
“Boris, you have talent, you have … the necessary mercilessness for greater things.”
“I’m not merciless,” he said. “I’m not cruel.”
“Oh, but you are, Boris. You are, and it’s magnificent! I see beyond this weak flesh that you are clothed in. I see your pitiless gaze on the things around you. You are like an ancient King, gazing imperiously over your subjects. Yes, Boris, I see into that hidden part of you.”
“I only do what is necessary,” said Boris. “I do what I must to keep the peace. I reward the Houses, a system that has rewarded me. I work for a better Caeli-Amur, a fairer one.”
She laughed, the sound like the rustling of paper in the distance. “I will make you Director. You can now move to the Director’s offices. But, Boris, crush these seditionists and we shall find an even greater role for you.”
“What greater role could there be?”
She leaned in even closer, her dry lips now brushing the side of his ears. “Boris, are you afraid of death?”
Boris was stunned into silence.
Her head brushed slowly against the side of his. “Imagine if you didn’t have to die. Imagine if you could live forever. The elixir of life—what would you trade for that? What would you be prepared to do for that? You could live with your precious Siren for centuries, rather than waste away and die in those brief decades that your decaying body will offer you. Imagine that.”
Boris remained quiet, but his mind was rushing. He had heard of the Ascended in old wives’ tales: those who transcended death. To live without the fear of dying, that emerging blackness coming for them all—that would be truly something—something he could share with Paxaea, who would herself live for hundreds of years or perhaps longer. They could live together beyond the vale of death.
As Boris stood in reverie, the Elo-Talern’s horselike head nestled wet against his cheek.
TWENTY-TWO
When he arrived back at his office, Subofficiate Armand stood motionless before him, radiating calm, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes piercing and projecting a sense of control. He seemed the very opposite of Boris: Where the tramworker was stout and common, Armand was thin and aristocratic. “The Elo-Talern have instructed me to show you to your new offices and suite. As subofficiate coordinating the Palace, it’s been my task to prepare for a new Director, as much as I could.”
Armand led Boris up through the Complex toward the uppermost levels and there threw open great double-doors leading to a vast office dominated by a wide dark-wood desk. On the floor a great mosaic pictured Alerion’s triumphant march into Caeli-Amur after the battles in the wastelands. The reds and blues of the mosaic’s tiles were wondrous and alive.
In the corner of the room, close to the desk, stood a machine the size of a person. It was oval, like a black egg perched on a stand. On its surface, silver ideograms formed complex interweaving patterns. Between its egg-shaped body and its base, it was held up by a metal pole, around which were pistons, a group of thin tubes, small hand-wheels to adjust aspects of the machine, it seemed to Boris.
Along its sides were fixed small metal bolts, but they were unlike those from a normal bolt-thrower. A transparent window in its midsection revealed a thousand little black specks, tiny mite-sized mechanical creatures.
“It’s a memory-catcher. Here’s the trigger for it.” Armand showed Boris a button underneath the desk. “Have your enemy approach the desk, then pull the trigger. As easy as that. The bolt is loosed, the memory drained, leaving the victim mindless. The memory can then be imbibed later.” He gestured to the machine behind him. “You see the bolts attached to the side? They’re the vessels for the victim’s remembrances.”
Boris was transfixed by the splendor of the room, but he couldn’t stop thinking of Paxaea. He should concentrate on the office, on his work, on quelling the disturbances that threatened House rule, but the image that rose in his mind again and again was of great emerald eyes and raven black hair. She had suggested they travel to Taritia together, and he imagined her showing him the little rock-pooled coves, the steep sheer cliffs and ridges on the islands, the wondrous views of the archipelago as the hundred and more little islands scattered across the warm seas.
Boris opened the doors that led to his personal rooms, which were warmly decorated in frescoes of red and orange depicting Caeli-Amur under the rein of Alerion, after he had thro
wn Aya from the city. A huge bed stood along one wall. At the opposite end of the room sat couches and chaises longues around a little semicircle, close to a fireplace. Through an open door at the other side of the room Boris could see the base of some great machine, a tangle of pipes and tubes. He walked to the door and examined the huge round object. “A sphere!” he said. A staircase led around the sphere to its open top. He climbed the stairs and looked in at the pale water. “Incredible: just like the water palaces.” Boris thought again of Paxaea. Tonight they would lie together, he had decided. He would take her to one of the water palaces and then … He shook off the alluring vision.
Armand stood tall and straight. “It has been ten years since the House has had a Director. He lived for the House and he died for the House. I hope you’ll not be a disappointment.”
Boris stared at the young man. “Whom do you think you’re talking to?”
“That’s better.” The side of Armand’s lips twitched slightly.
“But I’m going. I have things to do.”
“Before you do, one last thing.” He led him to the corner of the office, where a great ball sat on top of a pillar, from which jutted a lever. “It’s a scrying ball: to communicate with the Directorate of Varenis. They are expecting your contact.”
“What do we owe them?”
Armand examined him calmly. “Nothing; everything. Varenis has left us a free city-state. What is that worth? It’s simply a matter of courtesy.” He waited as he thought and added: “Remember, failed Directors never come to a happy end. I look forward to making your Directorship as brutal as necessary and successful as can be.”
Armand turned to leave, but Boris halted him. “Armand, I remember well your kind words at the amphitheater. Congratulations, you are now an officiate, if that is what you wish.”
Armand smiled coolly and nodded his head. “A fine first decision, Director.” He turned and left, inscrutable and aloof as ever.
Boris stood before the pillar. He wanted desperately to leave. The thought of Paxaea engulfed his mind like a drug. Instead he looked with dread at the lever. Varenis was ruled by the Sortileges, but was run by the Directorate, a great bureaucracy that held all the levers of power. Unlike Caeli-Amur, theirs was one unified power under the watchful eye of a single Director. Boris wondered how it worked. Like most workers, he had never ventured to other cities. He had never even seen the Dyrian coast. But his concept of Varenis set his imagination alight. Into Boris’s mind sprang visions of a new Caeli-Amur: a Forum to replace the ruined ancient one. It would be composed of the Houses, with voting rights, and for the citizens, a tribune with speaking rights, if not voting rights. Perhaps Varenis would help? Boris pressed his lips together. He rubbed his hands against the side of his suit. Fear gripped him. He continued to examine the lever.
Boris reached forward and gripped it, hesitated for a moment as fear rushed down into his stomach, then shifted it down.
A pinpoint of light began in the center of the ball. Quickly it spread out to fill the entire thing. Finally it radiated into the whole room.
The sister ball seemed to be in a room atop a circular tower of some sort. For in front of him, Boris could see a balcony with a railing. Nearby stood the circular walls of other towers that dwarfed even this one. Beyond these lay a vast plaza surrounded by gigantic forty- or fifty-story buildings. His mind leaped: Varenis’s Plaza of the Sun in which stood the twelve towers, one for each of the Sortileges, as every Caeli-Amur schoolchild knew.
The image of a man walked into Boris’s office, though his body was leagues away in Varenis. “Ah, my counterpart for House Technis. Welcome. Your man Armand has sent us word of your rise to power.”
Boris said, “I’m Boris Autec.”
“The Sortileges greet you.…” The man had no need to introduce himself: when a man ascended to the position, he gave up his name and became only known as the Director. Instead, he hesitated for a minute and looked to his right, at something out of Boris’s vision. An odd light shone from that direction, as if someone were holding an lamp with a warped lens that distorted the image. Boris squinted, but could not make anything out in that misshapen part of the projection.
The man’s voice trembled. A twitch appeared beneath one eye. “The Sortileges ask how you … how you intend to enforce order in Caeli-Amur.”
“The Elo-Talern and—”
“The Elo-Talern are nothing but withered degenerates!” The man burst out unexpectedly. He seemed angry with someone other than Boris, perhaps himself. He glanced briefly again to his right, toward the shifting and contorting light. Something was standing out of view: someone was watching the conversation. “Forget the Elo-Talern. They have retreated from this world. Why they have suddenly taken interest in the Houses after so many years is a mystery. Perhaps you think they rule Caeli-Amur the way the Sortileges rule Varenis, but that would be an error. Those days are long gone.”
Boris blinked rapidly. Rudé had mentioned that the Elo-Talern had only recently reemerged to turn their attention to matters in Caeli-Amur. Boris suddenly wondered why. Boris pushed the thought from his mind and said, “No doubt the Sortileges are great indeed. It is a great comfort that we can rely on their support.”
The Varenis Director’s legs began to tremble. “It would be unacceptable to Varenis for there to be some kind of … lawlessness, some tyranny of liberty, in Caeli-Amur. We rely on all our neighboring regions to remain stable. How else might peaceful rule continue? The Directorate would be unhappy if it needed to intervene. Many of our legions are engaged with the wild tribes of the northeast. The ones stationed in Varenis have already spent years campaigning. They deserve some rest. In any case, keep us informed.”
Boris nodded and pursed his lips as the Director leaned forward and the image shrank rapidly back into a point of light within the ball.
Boris blinked again. Words rattled in his mind: “The Elo-Talern are nothing but withered degenerates.”
Replaying the scene, Boris rushed from his new rooms to the courtyard, where Tonio waited with his carriage. From there Boris rode back to the Opera. As he waited in the carriage for Paxaea, the world was a writhing sea of shadows. He could make them out more clearly now. They seemed to be on a different plane, so that they appeared to walk up invisible stairs or inclines, or else dip beneath the ground. He gulped the last of his hot-wine from his final bottle. Tomorrow he would acquire some more at the market.
When Paxaea stepped into the carriage, he pulled her close to him so she almost toppled onto him. She tensed: she was perhaps nervous, now that things were progressing well between them. Doubtless she didn’t want to ruin her chance for happiness, her chance to return to her Taritia. She sat down awkwardly next to him.
“I am Director of House Technis. I have been given the finest offices overlooking the city; all the officiates will report to me; we are on the road to our triumph.”
“That is good news,” she said tersely.
“There is more. The Elo-Talern have offered me the elixir of life. It seems incredible, a child’s tale, but it’s true. Do you know what that means? It means that perhaps I could live forever, like you.”
She looked at her delicately sculpted maroon boots, a fine combination of Taritian style with Caeli-Amur workmanship. She did not, however, reply.
The carriage carried them north, along the low-lying area overlooked by the Northern Headland on which perched House Marin’s palace and many of the mansions belonging to the Marin officials. They passed over the canals that crisscrossed the area, the carriage climbing over bridges, some miniature, others wide and long. Through the windows, boatmen could be seen pushing their gondolas along the canals, which stank of refuse in the warm summer air.
The carriage stopped at a colossal building, almost as large as the Opera, and cut in the manner of the ancients, giant pillars running along the front of it. Boris stepped from the carriage and held out his hand for Paxaea.
Up the stairs they climbed, and int
o the Water Palace of Taium, the largest of the baths in the pleasure district of Caeli-Amur. Led by an intendant, they traversed the long halls, seeing the many steam baths to their right and left, some surrounded by gardens, others like rock pools, one below the next, connected by waterfalls.
Eventually he led them to a door. He touched the wall and the door dilated open, revealing a spherical room with a round door on either side. “Undress, and place your clothes into these slots in the wall. When you are ready, tell the chamber and it will begin.”
Boris began to disrobe, but Paxaea stood still.
“What is this place?”
“The baths of the ancients. Disrobe,” said Boris.
She reached for her shoulder. With a subtle rub of thumb and forefinger, her dress dropped to the ground. Boris stood there, mesmerized by that hourglass figure, the heavy breasts and the wide hips, the rounded belly. She looked like a painting, with her black hair swept back severely, and her emerald eyes challenging him, fierce and proud.
He placed her still-moving dress together with his clothes in the slot, which then closed.
“There is no water,” she said.
“We are ready,” Boris said to the room.
The circular door closed behind them, sealing them inside. A soft gurgling sound issued from the walls. From a thousand little openings around the base of the walls, water poured into the room. The water was warm as it touched their feet. A few moments later it had risen to their ankles, and then their knees. There was a faint perfumed scent to it; it was infused with vanilla and another more robust scent. When the water reached their waists, Boris dropped down and kicked his legs. He floated toward Paxaea, who remained still. He took her by the arms and held himself horizontal. The water was now above Paxaea’s breasts, then her neck.
She kicked off the floor and slowly treaded water.
Together they floated toward the ceiling, the both of them kicking their legs as the roof neared.
“When will it stop?”
Unwrapped Sky Page 24