by Liz Williams
The Animus flexed and coiled. “You will still follow Elaki’s orders?”
“I want to discover just why this girl is so important to her. Why should it not be I who rules in Tower Cold? If I can gain an advantage over my aunt, I wish to do so.”
“What of her sisters? Would you seek an alliance with them?”
“They betrayed Tower Cold,” Yskatarina said. “Whatever one might think of Elaki, I could not trust them.”
“And those in the Mission? They, too, are of the clan.”
“I remember the ones who went to the Mission, the nine sisters. Something about them horrified me. I would be reluctant to encounter them again. Perhaps it was just that I was only a child ... I will contact them. And regarding other matters, Memnos has put me in touch with a war-madam who supposedly is reliable.”
“We could just disappear,” the Animus said with a trace of wistfulness.
Yskatarina ran a hand along its gleaming hide. “And perhaps we will. But not yet.”
After a pause, the Animus said, “Do you know where we’re going?”
Yskatarina nodded. “A place where no one will think to look, that everyone except the old Matriarch has forgotten. And perhaps Yri and Yra.”
They left before dawn, flying north over the city, Yskatarina clinging to the Animus’s back. If anyone had looked up, they would have seen nothing more than a shadow crossing the sky, and perhaps not even that.
By noon, flying high above the dappled expanse of sea and island, they reached the end of the Yellow River estuary. The Animus flew low over sand flats and marsh, steaming with heat, to the tangle of forested bluffs beyond.
“Not far now,” the Animus said, voice half-swallowed by the wind.
“I can see it! There, on the cliff.”
Yskatarina looked down at the thick walls of the house that had, many years before, belonged to the skin-sisters of the Elder Elaki. The house, once a mansion of massive stone, was now almost a ruin, with the sea encroaching fast upon the cliffs on which it stood. As they flew lower, she saw that at some point in its history someone had constructed a veranda around its base, a frivolous, teetering edifice of moldy wood, with a straw roof that had long since been eaten away by the sea winds. The veranda was incongruous, a delicate, rotting lace around the bulk of the mansion. The Animus descended to alight upon it. Yskatarina slid down from its back. There was not much left to explore. They set up a rough base in the inner courtyard, then went out to the surrounding jungle to search for any signs of the lost ship. They found no sign of it. Returning to the ruin, Yskatarina put two calls in to the antiscribe and waited.
Toward the end of the afternoon, the Animus glanced up to a sky that was heavy with rain.
“Is there any word from the Mission?” he asked.
“No, none.” Yskatarina frowned at the antiscribe. “I can’t understand it. The call went through. They should have responded by now. Yet there is nothing.”
“But at least the other has answered,” the Animus said. “Look.”
Yskatarina looked up. Something was floating down from the heavens: a small insectoid craft. Yskatarina stood, legs braced, waiting for the arrival of the ship. It touched the rough boards of the terrace and the hatch opened with a crackling snap.
A smooth-faced form stepped down to stand before her, robed in jet and translucent armor. Yskatarina frowned, wondering whether the featureless visage was a mask, or the thing’s own face. Impossible to tell whether it was metal, or seamless silvery skin. The eyes were like wells, but as the thing turned its head, they seemed as flat as glass.
“You sent for me,” the thing said in a voice like a bell.
“Indeed. The target has been located and her identity confirmed. You are to kill those who guard her, and bring her to me.”
“My mistress wants assurance of payment.”
“I have sent a guarantee to your war-madam. It contains codes, secrets that will become activated upon completion, as soon as I hear from you. I will speak with your mistress directly, in due course.”
“My mistress has asked for further clarification.”
“She cannot have it,” Yskatarina said sharply. There was a short, tense pause. She went on, “No, you must bring the target here. Kill everyone else and secure the weir-wards at the mansion so that no one else can get in. There is something I wish to look for.”
“I understand.”
“Then I shall leave you to do your work.”
The assassin performed a polite bow in acknowledgment of this courtesy, then spun, looking down at its long hands. A split opened up the length of each palm, to reveal a double row of splinter teeth. Yskatarina watched with curiosity. Carefully, the assassin adjusted the contents of its jaw: blow-fumes and needleswitches.
“I am ready.”
“Good,” Yskatarina said. The ship rose up from the veranda, enfolding the assassin, and began the long glide out to sea.
CHAPTER 2
Earth
The house seemed quiet today, Dreams-of-War thought as she made her way to Lunae’s chamber. Even the humming of the growing-room, which usually she could detect against the background murmur of equipment and the oreagraph sensors, was muted. She wondered uneasily whether the enhancements on the armor were malfunctioning, whether the blacklight matrix had affected it.
Outside the chamber Dreams-of-War paused for a moment. She could hear nothing within; perhaps Lunae was asleep. She knocked lightly on the door. There was no reply. Frowning, Dreams-of-War touched her palm to the lock release. The door glided open. Dreams-of-War stepped through. Lunae’s bed was shrouded behind the draperies and the blinds were drawn down over the windows, casting the chamber into an underwater gloom. There was no sign of Lunae.
Somewhere beyond the window, someone was singing: a thin, sweet song that captivated Dreams-of-War. She stood mesmerized, her head on one side as the intricate notes fell around her, filling the room. She gave no more thought to Lunae. The song held her, trapping her in a web of sound, running filaments along the neural skeins of the armor until Dreams-of-War could not have moved even if she had wanted to. She felt no dismay at this, only fascination as she followed the song. She did not even react when a figure stepped out from the shadows beside the bed: something tall, with a silvery face and hollow eyes, dressed in black. Its mouth was pursed, as if whistling. It carried a sword like a web of lights, a thin katana curve that glittered through the air as it brought the sword down upon Dreams-of-War’s unresisting head.
The world opened up. Dreams-of-War was falling through sudden space. She saw the sword whirling against a backdrop of stars, spinning toward a sun. A black form hurtled far below, face openmouthed with surprise. Dreams-of-War twisted to see a great dark world rising to meet her. She cried out and a hand curled around her wrist and pulled.
She was back in the chamber, sprawling on the floorboards and gasping with outrage and fear. She snatched her hand away from Lunae’s grasp.
“It’s all right,” Lunae said above her, fierce as a hunting cat. “I took it away. You are safe.”
Lunae’s memories of the assassin and what she had done with it remained hazy and blurred. She recalled the gray plain and the slow-flowing river, a glimpse of stars and the way that the assassin’s hand had twisted in her own, as though she clutched a beetle in its death throes. But the memories were incomplete, and faded as a dream fades once morning has begun.
After she had taken the assassin away and returned, the kappa had come, fussing and quivering, and insisted that Lunae go to bed.
“Will Dreams-of-War be punished?” Lunae asked hesitantly.
“I do not know.”
“What was that person? Was it one of the Kami, do you think?”
“Hush,” said the kappa, in a whisper like the sea. She helped Lunae into bed and folded the covers around her.
Lunae did not remember falling asleep, but suddenly, she was dreaming. She stood in a cavern of red stone. Smoke filled the air, causing the
sunlight to become uncertain.
“Where am I?” Lunae asked into nothing, and a voice said, “Why, this is our home. Don’t you know it?”
Lunae turned to see a woman shrouded in layers of indigo veils. She could not see the woman’s face, and yet she was strangely familiar. The woman came to stand by her, and whispered secrets into her ear in an unknown language. Lunae knew they were secrets, for the woman smiled and put a finger to her veiled lips, looking around her with theatrical covertness. The woman’s voice was like the wind, a sighing rustle in the reeds.
“Who are you?” Lunae asked.
“Don’t you know?” the woman said again.
Lunae frowned, and the woman swept the veils aside. She was looking into her own face, perhaps twenty years older, the eyes hollow and filled with dreadful things.
“No,” Lunae said, and stepped back.
“I’ve been here for such a long time,” the woman-who-was-herself said. “But now you’re here to take my place, and everything will be all right.” Before Lunae could utter a word of protest, she began to fade, until there was nothing left except darkness and silence.
The next morning, Lunae awoke to find Dreams-of-War pacing the room. The Martian woman’s armor bristled; her footsteps crackled on the floorboards as though some kind of electrical field had been activated. Dreams-of-War’s face was as set as an angry marble statue.
Lunae sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Dreams-of-War spun to face her.
“We will be leaving tomorrow. You have your wish.” Dreams-of-War’s mouth compressed and Lunae realized the reason for her apparent anger: Dreams-of-War did not like to fail. Lunae wondered whether her guardian resented the fact that her charge had succeeded in the removal of the assassin, where she herself had not, and a sudden, curious emotion flooded through her, a kind of elation. It was, however, swiftly followed by dismay. She realized that Dreams-of-War would not take kindly to efforts to reassure her.
“Where are we going?” she asked. Best to focus on the practicalities; Dreams-of-War was generally good at those.
“A safer place than here. The Grandmothers have deemed it best that you are not informed.”
Dreams-of-War’s eyes had narrowed into that don’t ask questions look that Lunae knew so well, but this time she thought of the assassin’s face as she spirited it out of the room, out of the world and beyond. She rose to her feet, looked her guardian full in the face, and said, “Tell me.”
Dreams-of-War’s gaze did not falter or fall. It was like staring down a well. But after a moment she said calmly, “Very well. We go to the Fire Islands, to the place where the kappa comes from.”
“For how long? And how will we get there?” Lunae asked, excitement causing the words to spill out one over the other like beans from a jar.
“How long depends. I have ordered a litter to fetch us at noon tomorrow and convey us to the harbor. It is the earliest that could be arranged.”
“What am I to take with me?” Lunae asked. The prospect of leaving Cloud Terrace was unsettling, but swiftly overcome by excitement. She longed for tomorrow to come. Otherwise, she felt, the Grandmothers might change their minds, or Dreams-of-War might decide that she would be safer here. At once, there seemed a thousand possible obstacles to the actuality of leaving.
“I have asked the kappa to prepare suitable traveling attire.” Dreams-of-War looked Lunae over with an appraising eye. “A pity we are not on Mars. Then you could fight for armor.”
“Did you fight for yours?” Lunae asked, wide-eyed. Dreams-of-War gave a small, grim nod of satisfaction.
“Of course.”
“How many women did you have to fight?”
“Five, in the final rounds. Twelve, before that.”
“What happened to them? Did you kill them?”
“No, it is rarely a fight to the death. Four returned to the clan house, to undertake lesser work. One ran off into the heights, and was never heard from again. Perhaps she fell prey to bandits, or men-remnants. I do not know.” Nor greatly care, Dreams-of-War’s expression said.
“I do not know how to fight,” Lunae murmured, but suddenly it seemed a fine thing to learn.
Dreams-of-War said, with grudging approval, “It seems you have your own methods of dispatch. However, if you wish to learn more conventional means, I will teach you. But for now, you will have to wait.”
CHAPTER 3
Earth
Yskatarina paced the long veranda of the house, looking out across the estuary. The Animus crouched in a dark corner, half-concealed in a tumbling mass of jasmine.
“It has not yet returned,” she said into the empty air. “It is very late.”
“Perhaps something has delayed it,” the Animus murmured.
“Perhaps. But it should have been back by now, bringing the hito-bashira with it. I’ll contact its war-madam.” Yskatarina slapped the rail, splintering the wood. “Still nothing from the Mission, either. Let me look at the antiscribe.” She began to unscroll the little device.
Traces of ancient woes showed in the foliage that surrounded the ruin; the flowers of the jasmine emitted a faint, unpleasant glow once the sun had gone down. Everything seemed sticky, as though the air itself exuded a resin. Yskatarina’s clothes and hair were matted with it, and it crept into the joints of her artificial limbs. As she had lain awake that night, staring into the perfumed darkness, she wondered whether it was not a product of an obsolete chemical weaponry, after all, but simply curdled hate, seeping from the walls of the mansion and fastening upon herself, Elaki’s almost-child. From what she knew of the relationship between Elaki and her long-lost sisters, it seemed all too plausible an explanation. The newly formed hollow within her head had never seemed so comforting.
The ruin was very different from Tower Cold, from Memnos, and yet it still seemed to have some of the same atmosphere, a miasma of wrath and disappointment. Yskatarina and the Animus were camping out in the shattered, fire-blackened courtyard, sleeping amid weeds in the hazy sunlight of the day, waking once the comforting night had fallen, to plot and plan.
“What are you going to do if the assassin does not return?” the Animus asked from his place beneath the jasmine. She could smell him beneath the strong, sickly scent of the flowers: the odor of fungal musk, the odor of Nightshade. “Will you hire another?”
“I will take steps. I have spoken to my aunt. Elaki is not pleased. She demands results.” Yskatarina shrugged. “She is old, querulous. I have honeyed her with promises, which she chooses to believe.” Yskatarina stretched, balancing on sleek plastic. There was such delight in being able to criticize.
In the scrub at the edges of the veranda, something moved. Yskatarina looked sharply up from the antiscribe. “What was that?”
The Animus uncoiled himself, centipede swift, and flowed over the side of the veranda. There was a brief thrashing in the bushes. The Animus emerged, bloody.
“Now there is nothing there.”
Yskatarina went to the railing of the veranda and peered over. Something large lay on its side, twitching. She saw the dull gleam of too-large eyes, a gaping hole where the mouth should have been. Yskatarina frowned.
“Was that human?”
“Once,” the Animus said thickly.
The night air seemed suddenly bitter, the salt harsh against Yskatarina’s skin. The taste of Tower Cold was metallic inside her mouth. For a moment, it was as though the hollow in her head had become filled. It felt like an invasion. She shivered once, and turned back to the antiscribe.
An hour later, she sat back in disappointment, staring down at the antiscribe. “The assassin has disappeared. I’ve been searching for it for an hour now. There is no sign.”
“How so?” the Animus asked, puzzled. “Has someone removed its tracking device?”
“The tracker is hardwired into its nervous system. You could not remove it without removing the whole of its neural network. I suppose that’s one possibility.”
; “What are others?”
Yskatarina spread her hands. “That it is no longer on Earth. But that isn’t possible. The trace just winked out, from one moment to the next. Even if you put the thing in one end of the Chain and shot it out of a maw, there would still be a gradual decrease as it entered shadow-space and then the Eldritch Realm. Where has it gone?”
The Animus, wisely, was silent. Yskatarina rose and walked to the end of the veranda, but this time she did not stop. Treading carefully, she walked down the rickety steps, half-eroded with mold, and down the cliff path to the shore of the Yellow River estuary. Neon vegetation glowed, sickly with colors that shifted in the moonlight. She should have felt more comfort in the darkness, she thought, but this was nothing like Nightshade, nothing like Tower Cold. She could feel the weight of Earth pressing in against her, all the guilt and pain of that ancient cradle.
I do not belong here. I was born on the system’s edge.
But her ancestors had come from this world; they haunted her down the DNA line. Their whispering had grown louder ever since the ship had docked at the Kita Hub. She did not know how long she would be able to bear it. Suddenly she longed for Tower Cold, for the familiar sights of the mourn-women preparing the canopics, for the shadows beyond the tower’s portals.
But she did not long for the Elder Elaki. There were still things for which to be grateful.
Behind her, she heard the rustle and hiss of wings. The Animus spiraled lazily down the side of the cliff with dactylate ease, waiting with his customary courtesy for her to set foot upon the estuary shore before alighting.
The shore was a mess of black sand and brackish creeks, sliding down the face of the bluffs, to seep into the sea. It smelled of death. Ancient things occasionally washed up to lie putrefying upon the sand until rotting down into skeins of cartilage and pools of flesh. Even the carrion birds left them alone, as if they were cursed. There was one here now, perhaps twenty feet in diameter. Impossible to tell what it had been. There were the suckered ropes of squid, the long tendrils of man-o’-war, a long, feathery neck ending in a spatulate head. A great dark eye stared hopelessly upward.