“She knows her place better than most Plutarchs,” Abraxas said.
“High praise from the mighty Abraxas.”
“Don’t be obtuse. Nyl is superior Plebian stock. Obviously, she doesn’t have the potential of a Plutarch. If she was given access to the Fog, it would draw out her meaner nature, her impulsiveness, her weakness for material goods–yet there’s something to be said about the difference between potential and actual. Too many Plutarchs forget their responsibilities. Nyl never forgets hers.”
“Like mother like daughter, I suppose,” Vilindrio said, reminding Abraxas that Nyl’s mother was one of Vilindrio’s servants. The Plutarchs sipped their wine. Vilindrio played absently with patterns in the Fog, conjuring a thin gray tube that twisted in the air and tied itself into complex knots.
“Speaking of those who forget their responsibilities, a rumor has come to my ears,” Vilindrio said.
The real reason for his visit, thought Abraxas.
“What is it this time?” he asked.
“Ah, you sound cross. Perhaps now is not a good time for rumors.”
“It is rumors that make me cross.”
“I suppose some vexation is inevitable then. Very well. It’s Gallatius. I’ve heard he’s arranging something. It’s troubling, indeed, but there’s talk of another cloudfight,” Vilindrio said.
So there it was. Vilindrio had bet on one of the fighters and wanted to be sure Abraxas wouldn’t interfere. Cloudfights were against Plutarch propriety. The organizers could be punished, the event halted.
“Of course. We just lost two hundred legionnaires. What better way to celebrate than to throw a vanity fight and lose one or two more?” Abraxas asked, his scowl deepening.
“It is troubling, of course, but not all of the cloudborn can muster your discipline,” Vilindrio lamented.
“Why try then? Why not disband the city and join the heathens?” Abraxas asked, downing half his wine.
“I felt the same way when the rumor reached my ears. Still, sometimes men like Gallatius must be indulged. Let the middle support the ends, they say. Men at Gallatius’s end have too much wild energy. Better they spend it in trivial things, like this cloudfight, than to let it build up and rupture in places where it may do more damage. Panchaea must be kept whole.”
“Panchaea must be kept whole,” Abraxas said, almost spitting the words. “Not three days ago, we received word that half our campaigning legion was lost. Once, the city would’ve mourned such a disaster together. People knew their place, and the system benefited. The species was preserved. Now men like Gallatius barely seem to know a world beyond the Fog exists. The Plebians are their playthings. Personal entertainment is their highest virtue. We’ve been tasked with a grave responsibility, Vilindrio. Panchaea is a candle in the dark, and one ill wind could blow it out. We have maintained for centuries. Now there are signs the RFI is decaying. If we can maintain only a little longer, the crisis will have passed. Civilization will endure. But instead of working to preserve the balance, Gallatius threatens it by plucking Plebians from the streets and using them as he wills.”
“A travesty, to be sure. But again, sometimes the middle must suffer the ends, lest the whole be allowed to fracture. A few must suffer for the greater good,” Vilindrio said, swirling his wine.
Abraxas gave him a sidelong look. He’d almost forgotten who he was talking to. Vilindrio himself was more on Gallatius’s end of the spectrum. He’d come only to make sure Abraxas wouldn’t interfere with the cloudfight–and to let him know, indirectly, that he’d be involved. This way there’d be no awkward misunderstandings. Abraxas was the Consul of the Circle. He could have Gallatius punished. He could go so far as to suggest he be exiled. Gallatius’s own uncle was in the Circle, however, along with Vilindrio himself. It would never come to exile. Even so, Abraxas might’ve pushed to at least stop the fight if not for Vilindrio’s involvement.
Vilindrio was not one to forget a debt–nor a secret. He had used their old link repeatedly over the years. It had seemed, in that long-ago moment, that Vilindrio had been doing him a favor. Giving him an alibi. But of course, the man had only served his own interests.
Abraxas drained the rest of his wine.
Blackberry, he thought and scowled, remembering where he’d first picked up the taste. He’d preferred dry wines before his second wife. How strange that he still drank it, and with the very man who’d helped cover up her death.
“Whatever Gallatius does, he’d better keep his foolishness far from more civilized eyes,” Abraxas said. Nyl materialized with more wine. She stood between the two Plutarchs. As she poured, Vilindrio reached behind her and grasped an ample supply of flesh. Nyl flinched briefly, slopping wine over the side of Abraxas’s goblet.
“Apologies, Consul,” Nyl breathed, blushing.
“Your cup runneth over, Abraxas,” Vilindrio said, smiling. “Anyway, I’m sure Gallatius won’t be so foolish as to flaunt his unfortunate qualities before the public eye.”
The cloudfight would take place in a remote corner of the Fog, in other words. Abraxas conjured a towel, and Nyl dabbed at the wine. That was when the Watcher’s transmission reached his implant.
Consul, two men are approaching from the Wildlands.
The news caught him by surprise.
Savages? Abraxas sent back.
Hard to tell. One is waving for attention. The other … the other has silver eyes.
*
It had to be a trick. Trajan couldn’t possibly be walking toward the Fog at the mercy of a single Plebian from Thrace’s lost legion. It was too good, too easy to be true. Abraxas looked for hidden dangers. Not finding any only made him more suspicious.
I shouldn’t go out there.
But if it was Trajan, he needed to handle it himself. Dawn was still a few hours away. The Watcher on duty had thrown up a spotlight and used Fog-programs to identify the Plebian. There’d been some uncertainty. An Instructor had been summoned to confirm his identity. The Watcher hadn’t been able to identify Trajan at all. Abraxas had done that himself. Then he’d transmitted messages to the Circle. They had yet to arrive–probably sleeping. The two men would reach the Fog first … which couldn’t be allowed to happen.
“Send legionnaires to hold them. Don’t let them come any closer,” Abraxas said.
He took a beam weapon from storage, left the Watcher’s station, and descended to the northern perimeter-wall. By the time he arrived, four legionnaires had already gone out. Others waited in reserve. With two more legionnaires directly in front of him, shielding him, Abraxas went out through a gap in the wall. He could’ve summoned a fist of Fog and walked within it, stretching a protective gray cloud-arm from Panchaea–but Trajan would expect him to use the Fog. That could be part of his trap.
Before his exile, a block had been installed on Trajan’s implant to prevent him from accessing the Fog. Trajan had been an Artificer, however. He knew the old languages, and he could program the Fog at a deep level. If he’d found Ozymand or working Fog-tech elsewhere–as was suspected–it was possible he’d devised some way to override the block. If that was the case, Trajan could turn the Fog to his advantage. It was best not to risk that. Abraxas followed the two legionnaires, his beamer held low, eyes scanning the distant trees. The first four legionnaires had stopped the men ahead, skinnyguns at the ready.
“Abraxas! I’m surprised you had the courage to come yourself,” Trajan shouted. “Could be a clever ambush, don’t you think? A way to get you out in the open? Maybe I’ve got people hidden in the trees.”
“Godsblood, it is you. Trajan the Traitor, come at last to face justice, is that it?” Abraxas asked, halting ten meters away.
“Justice? Is that what you want? Problem solved. Tuck that beamer up under your chin and pull the trigger,” Trajan said.
The Plebian launched into an explanation before they could exchange any more words. Abraxas listened in disbelief. An unlikely story. Was he expected to believe it? What could Traj
an hope to accomplish by such a move? And then the answer hit him: a Fog-virus.
Fog-viruses had been the bane of the old world. Malicious programs that spread from microbot to microbot, hijacking otherwise benign connections, turning clouds of Fog into uncontrollable killing machines. Ozymandias himself had used them. Trajan could have rediscovered some or even written a new one himself. With a few specks of infected fogbots hidden on his person, he could bring doom to Panchaea.
American Adams was still talking. If he was part of the trap, Trajan must’ve converted him. Unless it wasn’t a trap–but how could it not be? Abraxas couldn’t take any chances. Perhaps it was best to burn them down where they stood. But no, he had to learn what was happening here.
“Strip them. Pile their belongings. If they take one step toward the city, kill them,” Abraxas said.
The Plebian stopped in mid-sentence, gaping. Trajan’s laughter was bitter. The legionnaires went to work. When their clothes and things had been piled in the grass, Abraxas took aim with his beamer. The rags and bindings burst into flames. A charred circle materialized in the grass. He swept the beam along the Plebian’s atomblade; it melted slowly. That would take care of any infected fogbots. Of course, there were still the men themselves…
A gray tube snaked forth from the perimeter-wall, crawling across the grass until it reached Abraxas. Using the Fog, he connected the far end of the tube to a system of pipes beneath an outer farm. Then he used his implant to access an administrative program on a server in the clouds. He rerouted the pipes. Suddenly the Fog-hose blasted the two naked men with a high-pressure jet. Trajan and the Plebian stumbled backwards, shielding themselves.
“Arms up,” Abraxas said.
When it was done, and they were soaked and shivering and presumably sterile, Abraxas turned to the legionnaires.
“Bring them inside. But knock that one out first,” he said, indicating Trajan.
*
It was hours later, near morning, when Abraxas finally talked to Trajan again. His old political rival-turned-terrorist-extremist was in a small, inveterated room high in the Fog. His wrists were shackled to the wall. The original block placed on Trajan’s implant had been an inhibitory program. This time he’d been injected with nanobots designed to deaden the implant itself. No amount of programming could reverse the effects.
Trajan was awake again and staring up at Abraxas as the latter entered. For a long moment, the two Plutarchs looked at each other.
“Trajan,” Abraxas said, shaking his head.
“Looks like you finally got the better of me,” Trajan sighed.
“I’m at a loss for how. Could you truly have been bested by a lone Plebian soldier?”
“I underestimated him. Rather, I thought he was better than this.”
Trajan’s expression was pained.
“Astonishing. Truly astonishing. The man has gone and made himself a hero. He’s earned a Triumph, for certain.”
“Indeed. Come closer,” Trajan said.
“Why?”
“I can’t spit that far.”
Abraxas smiled.
“Petty gestures for petty minds. Small wonder you fell for the wiles of that savage woman. Yet it saddens me more than you realize to see you like this.”
“Does it? That’s a relief. Set me free, that your conscience may be at ease,” Trajan said.
“It saddens me,” Abraxas went on, “because although you clearly harbor delusions about the average Plebian mind, we’ve always shared the same essential goal.”
“Again, a vast relief. Set me free and we’ll work together to bring you down.”
“You see? Your anger blocks your view. What I meant was: we both did what we thought was best for Panchaea. Too many Plutarchs have grown lax in their responsibilities. They forget we once saved the Plebians from the barbarism of the outside world. They forget we are the guardians of the future. You saw that failure in them, and it angered you, and you said, ‘Let us open up the Fog. Let us give access to all.’ Universal Fog-access was the downfall of the old world. Not everyone is fit to have such power. But your mistakes were honest ones, and you argued for what you thought was best. I could never begrudge you that. Since we are no longer competitors in any meaningful sense, I can tell you this: I hold you, even now, in higher esteem than I hold my own colleagues.”
Trajan said nothing this time.
“You know what has to happen now. Fogplate and atomblades have been seen in increasing numbers among the savages in recent years. We’d suspected you’d found Ozymand–and now the Plebian has confirmed it. Underground? Some kind of old military facility? No wonder we never found it. Obviously you overcame the block on your implant. You were always a skilled Artificer. Now, the problem at hand…
“The Plebian couldn’t locate Ozymand on a map. All he knows is that you crossed the river. It could take years to pin down the exact location. A small hill could easily be overlooked. I need you to find it for me. Naturally, you won’t want to do that. So we’ll put you in the dark. We’ll use sensory-deprivation. You’ll hallucinate. A week from now, you’ll be whispering secrets to ghosts. Just to be sure, we’ll put drugs in the water. Even knowing this, you’ll drink. Not at first, but eventually. It’s the nature of thirst. Then we’ll ask questions. I’m not telling you anything you don’t know. Still, I want you to understand that I don’t relish it, that I do only what’s necessary. I want you to remember what I said. Because like you, I will always do what is best for Panchaea.”
CHAPTER 12
Meric picked through his food in a daze. He was alone in the most luxurious room in the barracks–a room created just prior to his occupancy.
Initially, he’d been whisked away to a windowless gray chamber, where he’d been given new clothes and questioned by Instructors. His interrogators had alternated between doubt, suspicion, and incredulity. He was accused of being a spy for Trajan. Not exactly the heroic reception he’d imagined. By degrees, however, amazement and admiration had crept into the Instructors. Belief had taken shape. He’d been moved to the new room. Two soldiers had delivered him food and drink. They’d spoken with deference. No doubt the barracks was already abuzz with talk of his deeds. And he had done something, hadn’t he? Meric went to pop a morsel from the platter into his mouth, noticed it was a blackberry, and froze.
For a moment, his whole life rotated around that blackberry. He saw Meliai holding out her leafy bowl bearing the fruit of the Goddess. He saw himself alone in the Fog, ardently working to ensure the Plutarchs would have their share. One of these visions could not compare to the other. His self-satisfaction, so filling a moment before, proved as vapid as a fading breeze.
Blackberries are full of gaija, he thought. His hand completed its circuit to his mouth.
He would forget her in time. He wouldn’t feel that tightness in his throat. He wouldn’t imagine her grass-green eyes, nor remember the taste of her lips, on which had lingered the sweetness of an unknown fruit…
Just an ignorant savage.
Why had he kissed her? He would never tell anyone that part, not even Dominus. Especially not Dominus. Under questioning, he’d left Meliai out of his story entirely, despite her frequent mental intrusions.
The door opened, startling Meric, and Meliai, for once, was driven from his head. Reed and his mother stood in the doorway. The Matron Adams, a calm and not overly expressive woman, screamed Meric’s name, ran to him, and hugged him fiercely. Tears streamed down her face. He’d never seen her so emotional. Reed was wide-eyed and ecstatic. Meric forgot everything else.
They ate with him and asked him questions about his adventures. He’d answered the Instructors easy enough, but this was more personal–and unexpectedly difficult. It was all there in his mind, ready to be laid out, but when he tried to think of how to say it to his family, an impassable lump formed in his throat. Some things he just couldn’t talk about: how the spear had gone through Avigon’s eye; how the landslide had begun in naïve surprise and
ended in inexpressible horror; how there’d been dead women among the savages, entrails mixing with the mud, clear blue eyes reflecting the sky above. His answers felt short and unsatisfying. He tried to convey instead the excitement of the forest, seeing a wild panther in the distance, waking to the trees in the morning light–but even that came out oddly stilted. He told Reed how he’d taken a claw from a dead lion to give to him … which unfortunately had been lost at Jarl’s Ravine.
Then it was Meric’s turn to be surprised. He learned that Dominus’s group was still in the Wildlands. Reed and his mother had learned of Meric’s “death” only days earlier, when three soldiers had limped back to Panchaea. Surprisingly, Meric hadn’t been the only survivor from Thrace’s force. Frost, the veteran stealth-artist, had lain unconscious at the tail-edge of the landslide, half-buried in rock. When the savages had departed, he’d picked his way back through the trees to the steamcars. The wounded and the Priests there had been killed, and the steamcars destroyed, yet Frost had found three survivors scattered through the forest. He’d gathered them and made secretly for Panchaea. One had died of his wounds en route. Frost and the remaining two had made it back. Tears came to Meric’s eyes–someone else had lived through the disaster. Perhaps they would visit him. They would know the things he couldn’t say.
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