Dead of Veridon (Burn Cycle)

by Tim Akers

  I hadn't really expected to be alone, either. Curfew or no, the underground markets were going to keep moving. Especially with the legitimate harbors cut off, I thought that the dark passages would be alive with contraband smugglers and the kind of underhanded merchants I had spent most of the last six years doing business with. There was nothing. The passages were empty, the cisterns echoed my footsteps, no matter how quietly I stepped, and the dry rivers were mine to wander alone. There was more going on here than a curfew. The city had been paralyzed, like a patient on a table. Still and cold, as good as dead.

  I started my expedition with no real purpose in mind. Just wanted to get back among the criminals. Someone who might know something about what was going on and be willing to talk about it directly, rather than as part of some political game. An hour of dreary wandering made it clear that there wasn't anyone down here to talk to. And an hour after that, I saw why.

  Veridon lies at the foot of the river Reine, by far the largest of the three rivers that border the city. Both the Edb and Dunje flow into it, bringing trade down from the high plains to the east of Veridon. The Reine itself flows to the south, until it tumbles over the enormous waterfall that once marked the edge of the known world. It was the discovery of the zepliner that opened up the market downfalls, and gave Veridon a certain amount of political power, power that it eventually translated into absolute dominance. The Reine itself is a deep and mysterious river. Its waters hold the strange wreckage that the Church of the Algorithm treat as found revelation, as well as the underwater dwellings of the Fehn.

  Part of the city extends over the Reine, held up by the piles of piers that laced together to become streets and houses and, eventually, just another part of the city. But underneath the houses, the river still flowed. There was a shore, a miles-long floodwall of dark stone, cut and shaped at the birth of the city. It was at the floodwall that I found the traffic I expected. Sort of.

  They looked like a congregation of the dead. Thousands of pearl-white heads, standing shoulder to shoulder, facing out into the river. Perfectly still. Their numbers continued over the wall, disappearing slowly into the tide until they were just beneath the water, their heads breaking the surface with each wave like a morbid reef. They were silent, standing guard. The city was cut off from the river, at least by this route. They stood ten deep in some places, all along the bank. Without a word, I crept away from them. Whatever magic commanded their attention, it didn't ask them to turn around. All that saved me, probably.

  There were other ways to the river. Many houses built over the river had a private dock built into their basements. But whatever force had organized this blockade wouldn't have ignored that, not if they'd taken so much trouble to block the whole bank under the city. I shuddered to think what had become of those households, what steps had been taken.

  This was more than a curfew. It was a blockade. We were quarantined from the rest of the world. Why? What was going on in Veridon, that we needed to be sealed in until it was over?

  Did I want to know, or did I want to find a place deep enough to ride it out, and bury myself? I had the feeling that the people I wanted to talk to, the criminals and professional troublemakers, had smelled the trouble in the air and done just that. And three years ago I would have been with them. Hell, this morning I would have been with them. I left Wilson in a huff last night with the full intention of getting the hell out of town. Hide. Run.

  And now I was considering finding the wrong people, the ones who might actually know what was going on, and finding out for myself. Maybe do something about it. What had happened?

  I stopped in an open cistern, one that had drained years ago and was now nothing more than an empty stone room deep under the streets. The corners were piled with trash, and a little light trickled in from a grate high up in the wall. Probably a street vent on some curb, something people walked by everyday without considering. Without looking down. I sighed and rubbed my face, then put my hands in my pockets and pulled the coat up around my shoulders. Cold down here.

  My hand brushed against something cold in my pocket. I took it out. The badge, with the tiny bullet-nick in the side. Chance encounters, I thought. The kind of chance encounter that changes your life. Maybe. I laughed. Chance, like that kind of thing ever happened to me.

  I stopped laughing. It couldn't have been chance. It was too weird, too sudden. Not that I had stumbled upon them, that was just Jeremy the Badge's bad luck. When I stumbled into people, it was usually bad luck for them. But that that happened the night before the curfew. What had he said? Ricky became an heir last night. Bad night to be an heir.

  I tapped the badge against my hand, staring up at the grate. Where was I, exactly? Somewhere in the lower third of the city, maybe near the barge market? I could count two families who made their homes in this district, both of them industrialists. I probably wouldn't get the friendliest reception at either house. Nearest Founder was Tomb, and there was no way I was going there. Not going home, either. Never going home. Anyone else was just too far to risk during the curfew.

  I sighed, slipped the bullet-gnawed badge into my pocket, and started the long climb back up to daylight.

  THEY WEREN'T EXPECTING someone at the door. Why would they, with the whole town shut down? And these were the people who had shut it down, so they knew the extent of the blockade. If anyone wasn't expecting company today, it was these people.

  There weren't any guards, which surprised me. I know this was one of the Councilors' estates because it was the hereditary home of the Nailers. Nailer and his wife never had any kids, after five generations of slim procreation, and so they sold the seat while it was still worth something and took off to the country. One of the happier succession stories. No one died, no one went broke. It was my understanding that the seat had changed hands a couple times since then, some of those transitions peaceful, some quite violent. But when I walked up to the gates, I had to check the address and my memory. The exterior was well maintained. Not like it was abandoned. But no guards, and the lock on the gate looked like it had been forced. Not a good sign. Still, I was a little surprised to be met by the barrel of a shotgun when the door eventually opened.

  "You don't know me," I said to the pair of eyes peering at me through the crack in the door.

  "Not the best thing to say," shotgun-eyes said. A young voice. Wonders never cease. I judged the height of the eyes and the angle of the shotgun. Just a kid, really.

  "Is mom home, kiddo?" I asked.

  "Mom isn't," said a voice from my side. "But his sister is."

  I turned to see the lovely Veronica Bright, leading four housies out of the bushes, all of them with short rifles trained at my heart.

  "We meet in interesting places," I said. "Under interesting circumstances."

  "No," she said. "We don't. Who are you, again?"

  "Jacob Burn. Son of Alexander, fifth of my line."

  "Ah. I've got two more men on the roof. My best shots."

  "I see," I said, rubbing my nose. "Is that relevant to the conversation? I mean, beyond the four guys here, about to put lead through my chest. Do the two guys on the roof somehow make that more or less important?"

  "You're being a smartass."

  "Oh, love," I said, spreading my arms. "You have no idea."

  "Take his gun. And check for anything he might have hidden."

  They gave me a thorough going over, then gave Ms. Bright my revolver and the badge. Wish they hadn't found the badge. She gave it a puzzled look and was on the verge of asking some embarrassing questions, so I cut her off.

  "This is quite a reception for just knocking on your door," I looked around at the four shortrifles, the shotgun at the crack in the door. Tried to see the theoretical snipers up on the roof. "Some special occasion?"

  "I'm just going to assume that you're an idiot. I'll ask again, and then I'm throwing you out into the street. Without your little pistol." She offered me the badge. "What do you want?"

  "
This isn't mine, by the way. Wouldn't want you to get the wrong impression. I took it off a guy."

  "Explains the bullet hole," she muttered.

  "Yeah, uh. Look. Can we go inside? I know this is your property and everything, but I really don't think we should be outside during the curfew."

  She looked uncertainly at me, then the empty street at the end of the drive. Finally, she shrugged and nodded at the door. It opened. It really was a kid, holding that shotgun. A young girl.

  Inside was pretty much what you'd expect of the new rich. A perfectly good generations-old somber grandeur was shattered with a crowd of brand new furniture, contemporary art hangings, even an autonomic sculpture that writhed liquidly in the center of the foyer. Veronica dropped my revolver onto a stand by the door that held a startling number of similar weapons, then pushed me towards the drawing room. The little girl with the shotgun followed us to the door, then locked us in and disappeared.

  "What the hell is going on around here?" I asked.

  "I really can't stress this enough," she said, rattling ice into a tumbler and pouring herself a glass of whiskey. "I'm not going to answer any of your questions. Not today. So you need to decide what you're going to tell me about your visit, and start telling it." She drank and winced. "Because today is not the kind of day where I'm going to take a lot of shit."

  "I can see why you and Angela get along so well. Fine. Last night I ran into some people. Two kids, looked like they were rich kids slumming, and an older guy. Their chaperone. Only he was drugging them, and then he drugged me, and talked a lot about how it was just bad luck."

  "Oh! You mean Richard Holbern. Yeah, the cops found him and his sister and one of their servants. Servant was shot dead. The girl said something about a homeless guy stumbling out of the dark and threatening them all."

  "Homeless guy? Honestly, do I look homeless to you?"

  "You look homeless to a pampered girl who's drunk too much. So it was you? You shot their man Jeremy?"

  "He drugged me! He drugged the girl." I was seated on a bench by the window. The door was locked and I couldn't see any other way out, so if this conversation went badly enough I might have to dive through the glass. Wouldn't be the first time. "And that guy, Jeremy whatever. I don't think he was on the up-and-up."

  "Uh huh. Look, if you'll just stay right here, I'm going to go get some guards and they'll..."

  "No, you won't. Not because you think I shot that guy, at least. Look around this place. You're all on lastrites alert, every damn person I've seen is carrying a gun or a rifle or... for gods' sake, or a shotgun," I snapped, pointing out to the foyer where I assumed the little girl was still standing guard. "If you really thought I was a threat, you would have just put me down on the door mat. So you don't think that, do you?"

  She didn't move much, just stood there leaning against the drinks cabinet, holding the glass against the fat swell of her lower lip and looking me up and down. Finally she sighed.

  "Might not matter what I think, Mister Burn." She finished the glass and set it on the cabinet, then pushed herself to her feet. "Kind of day we're having, it might just be useful having a guy like you in our back pocket."

  "What kind of day are you having, then? Because everyone around here looks scared as hell, yet you let a complete stranger, an armed man, into your drawing room. Then you stand in here with him, alone, drinking."

  The door burst open then, and I almost screamed. The lady who came through deserved to be screamed about. She was older, her hair wild and loose, and she was dressed in a blood-stained house dress. She held her hands in front of her. At first I thought she was wearing red lace gloves that ran down to her elbows. It was blood. She was covered in it.

  "Veronica, quit fucking around and give me a hand with..." She stopped when she saw me. I must have looked white as a sheet. Without realizing it, I had backed to the opposite side of the room from her and her exquisitely bloody hands. "Who's the wetnurse?"

  "Mother, this is Jacob Burn. Fifth of his line, I believe?" She crossed to her mother, walked past her and out of the room. She called back to me as she left. "Perhaps, Jacob, you're just not the kind of man I find very frightening. Wait here, will you?"

  She left, and her mother with her. The door closed with a click. The door handles were slick with that blood, like paint smeared across brass.

  I sat by the window, making myself drink after drink, and seriously thinking about taking a header through the window. Crashing through and running out the garden. Maybe even going home. Maybe going to Angela. Just getting out of here.

  When the door opened again, maybe ten minutes later, it was the little girl. She didn't have the shotgun.

  "You aren't one of them," she said, her little voice lilting and soft.

  "One of whom?" I asked. I don't know what it is about kids that brings out the grammar. I hoped it was right.

  "The black teeth men. The smiley guys," she answered, then smiled in a way that showed all her teeth and made a noise like the world's cutest porcupine being poked in the belly with a hot poker. "Rrrruuuugghhrrrr."

  "Ah. No, I am not one of them," I said, and smiled broadly to show her that my teeth were not black. She nodded.

  "You want a sandwich?" she asked.

  I hesitated to take food in a house where everyone ran around with blood on their hands. I demurred. "Not hungry. What's your name?"

  "I'm not going to tell you. You might be gone later, and then you'll forget it, and I'll have to tell you again. I don't care for that."

  "Oh. Kay. Um. And where is your mother? Or your sister?" Frankly, where is anyone but you, child? Where is an adult?

  Happily, Veronica walked in. She didn't look blood-speckled at all, which was a relief. Or perhaps she had the sense to wear gloves when she was butchering. She patted the nameless child on the head and shooed her out into the foyer, but didn't close the door. An exciting development.

  "Her sister is here, Mr. Burn. Sorry for the interruption. Now, you were trying to explain how you hadn't shot Jeremy Whatever-his-name-is."

  "No, I did. I shot him right dead. And took that badge off him."

  "Which is a silly thing to say, because Jeremy is not a cop. He's a manservant to his Lordship, the Duke Holbern. Try again."

  "I swear, I didn't expect it either. One second he's passing the bottle around, the next he's got a knife to the girl's throat and offering to exchange her if I'll just go away and leave him with the boy."

  She gave me the kind of look that statement deserved, I know, but life is sometimes weird. Especially around me. I tried again.

  "Last night was Richard's birthday, right?"

  She shrugged. "I guess. That's the sort of thing the secretary keeps track of. I'm sure we sent something very nice."

  "It was his majority birthday. That's what they both said. He was officially an heir at that point. And that's why Jeremy snatched him. His words. Bad night to be an heir."

  She stopped smiling, or at least stopped regarding me with cold amusement, for the briefest instant. When the smile snapped back in place, she was clearly unsettled.

  "Strange thing to say. I've always found it good to be an heir."

  "From what I understand, your father doesn't count his daughters, does he? Your brother is the heir. You're just his helper," I said. Because, let's be honest, I know how to be a dick. I know how to get to someone. And I got to her. She stiffened up, crossed her arms across what I was beginning to realize was a marvelous chest, and frowned. Good start, Jacob. Way to get the girl talking.

  "What I mean is, shouldn't he be here? What we're talking about is Council business. Isn't that his department?"

  "He's busy. You'll have to do with his helper girl." She walked to the drink cabinet and efficiently went about the business of putting the glasses and whiskey away. She talked to me over her shoulder. "What was your plan here, Jacob? Come in, insult the host, hope she shoots you before the really dangerous people show up?"

  "Look, that w
as a misstep. Okay?" I started to walk toward her, but thought better of it. I ended up hovering in the middle of the room. "What's going on out there isn't natural. It isn't normal. And I haven't yet heard anyone give me a good reason why the whole city is under curfew, much less blockade."

  Veronica put the last glass away and turned to me.

  "Blockade? They've shut the port, that's all."

  "They've done more than that, whoever they are. This whole town is cut off from the rest of the world. No one's getting out of here."

  "I assure you, the Council order was for a curfew. Nothing more."

  "Well," I said, folding my arms. "You may be in for a surprise. There might be more going on at the Council than you know."

  She scowled again, but didn't look me in the eye.

  "I suppose we're going to find out, aren't we?"

  "We are?" I asked.

  "Councilor Tomb has called an emergency session. The martial law has been extended. She's opening a vote to have the whole city militarized."

  "Martial law? Is that what this is about?"

  "Mostly. The little horror-show she took you to." Her eyes flitted up to mine, just briefly. "That's barely the beginning of it. The Council has been bickering about it for months. And now that action is being taken, well" - she threw her arms up - "they're overreacting. They're scared."

  "I've asked this a thousand times, Ms. Bright, and I'll ask it a thousand more unless someone answers me. What the hell is going on?"

  She sighed and looked me over. Made up her mind.

  "A Council meeting. You can come with me."

  "Are we going to accompany your brother?" I asked, then kicked myself as her face hardened.

  "Yes. Let's go get him, shall we?"

  She marched out of the room. I followed. We took a turn, then another, and finally walked into what must have once been a grand dining room. It was a butchery. The food was still on the table, eggs and ham and coffee had gone cold. The bodies had been moved, but not far. They lay on the floor, side by side, covered in spotted sheets. Mother stood near the head of the table, her face a mask of tragedy.