The Last Smile in Sunder City

by Luke Arnold

  They stayed there for an age, luring passing ships onto the rocks with their song. Then, half a century ago, the descendants of the first Sirens stole a boat and sailed it back to the mainland. When they arrived, they looked for the last thing anyone expected: a date. They chose their men, sang their songs, and did their best to settle down.

  Every child of a Siren would be another Siren daughter. Their species scattered themselves across the continents, setting up families in lovely little homes.

  In the old days, the husbands would happily hang around, providing for the wife and child. Not since the Coda. In a strange, global, mass-separation, every husband and father I’d heard of, once the Siren song was broken, walked out on the family and never returned.

  It wasn’t that the Siren women weren’t beautiful. Even without the power of their song, a Siren would likely look like a fantasy filled with fine wine. The husbands weren’t necessarily bad men either; they were just forced to realize that they’d been living under the influence for their entire relationship. Even if the choice to bed a Siren was a pleasant one, they knew they hadn’t made it with a sound mind. After the incident, they were truly free, possibly for the first time in years, and ventured off with shame, confusion and a desire to make their lives their own again.

  Mrs Gladesmith came to the door dressed in a nightgown and despair. Her eyes were red, her cheeks bloated and her hair a mess, yet she was still an indestructible beauty. We entered the living room and I sat down in an armchair with too many cushions. She offered tea and I declined.

  “With milk or without?” she asked.

  Her mind was somewhere far away, miles out to sea.

  “Without. Thanks.”

  She went into the kitchen and I was left alone in a room so full of sadness it was suffocating. Even the wallpaper looked suicidal. I transferred a few cushions to the couch and sat back.

  It was a living room made for unwrapping presents and spending warm nights by the fire. Above the mantel was a timeline of family photos. January featured in all of them, mostly alongside her mother. Both of them looked beautiful and bright. This house had not been immune to the changes in the world, it had just accepted them and tried its hardest to adapt.

  She returned with two ceramic cups and a sugar bowl, balanced on a silver tray. When she set them down on the coffee table, I was hit with an unexpected pang of nostalgia. The factories in Sunder City were almost exclusively powered by the underground fire pits. They all went quiet when the Coda happened, so a lot of industries dried up. Ceramic and other materials had become suddenly rare, so if you were a clumsy oaf like me, that left you with tin dinnerware pretty quickly. The cheap kind that screeches when you rub against it with the knife. Luckily, most of my meals came from a bottle.

  “Thank you, Mrs Gladesmith.”

  “Call me Deirdre.”

  I nodded. She perched on the edge of the couch, not allowing herself to get too comfortable. I understood the inclination. Her daughter was missing and everything inside her wanted to do something about it. To sleep was to abandon her. A smile was betrayal. To ever be at ease, while her baby was missing, would feel like she’d failed as a mother. Neither of us touched the tea.

  “How long has she been gone?”

  On the phone, I’d told her I wasn’t a police officer but that I was working privately to find another missing person. I said that my case, the details of which I could not divulge, crossed over with the disappearance of her daughter. Though I wasn’t explicitly searching for January, I thought there was a chance we could help each other. She didn’t sound very impressed with me but she was desperate enough to give anyone a shot.

  “Three days. She left the house Saturday morning and I haven’t seen her since.”

  It had been more than a week since Rye disappeared. They hadn’t gone missing together, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a connection.

  “Any idea where she was heading?”

  “I thought maybe she’d gone to see a friend but the police interviewed all of them. All that I know of. No one was expecting her. She’s a good girl. We’re very close.”

  “What were her interests?”

  Deirdre shuffled, then grabbed one of my discarded cushions and held it tight.

  “The usual stuff. Boys, books, games.”

  I nodded and adopted my most understanding tone.

  “It’s all right, Deirdre. There’s no judgment from me.”

  She shot me a deadly look.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I heard she wanted to be a singer.”

  She had barely made eye contact with me since I’d arrived. Now she was well and truly pulling away from my presence, retreating into her own head.

  “I told her it wasn’t right. People will think it’s pathetic, or perverse. It’s a shame. She has a beautiful, natural voice. Not like the old days, of course, but it’s sweet. She’s not trying to charm anyone.”

  I nodded. Siren women were often pushed to the fringes of society. Mental manipulation had been a forbidden practice for all spellcasters: Wizards, Witches, Warlocks, Mages. The Opus made an exception for Sirens. It was in their blood. They weren’t able to reproduce or even have relationships without pairing themselves through song. I think everyone always assumed it was somewhat voluntary anyway. Who wouldn’t want to claim a beautiful Siren as their own?

  Like a lot of other questions, the Coda brought the answers nobody wanted to hear. Since the worldwide divorce of the Siren population from their partners, a singing Siren gained less respect than a two-bit lady of the night.

  That was why Deirdre didn’t want her daughter singing. Did she know that Rye had been helping her?

  “How does she find the school?”

  Deirdre smiled for the first time.

  “It’s been so good for her. I was worried at first. Everything felt so scattered. All our families split apart. The old life was gone and no one who could tell us what the new one would be. How do you teach your child the ways of the world when you don’t know what kind of world it is? Then we heard about Ridgerock. I saw her on the first day, playing with the other children, and knew I’d made the right choice. She’s such a good student, always studying up on something.”

  “At the library?”

  “Yes. I love that old building. I’m one of the few Sirens that grew up in Sunder. I was in the library the last time the fires flared up. It came right up the hill, so we all huddled together in the basement. It was so hot that the water in the taps came out boiling. That was before I left to see the world. I traveled a lot, you know. Just like January wants to do.”

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out a journal that I’d taken from Rye’s tutoring files. Recorded inside were scribbled notes from their lessons together.

  “Her tutor, Professor Rye. Have you met him?”

  From the way she nodded her head it must have weighed more than a wrecking-ball.

  “What a gentle soul he is. So intelligent. And January really loves learning from him.”

  “What do they study?”

  “Oh, history. Language, I think.”

  Perhaps she was lying, but it was more likely that her daughter had lied to her. After Deirdre warned her about singing, January must have decided to keep her lessons a secret.

  “Why do you think Rye wanted to tutor her?”

  She knitted up her brow like I’d poked her between the eyes.

  “I don’t know. He saw something in her. Something… how did he describe it? Enduring. Yes. He believed in the importance of carrying things forward. We’ve already lost so much…”

  She trailed off. Her mind was going to someplace that I wouldn’t be able to get her back from. I stood up and went over to the mantel. There was a picture of January in front of the house that looked more recent than the rest.

  “Mind if I take this?”

  She didn’t say yes and she didn’t say no. I slid the picture from the frame and tucked it into my jac
ket.

  “Thanks for your time, Deirdre. As I said on the phone, I wasn’t hired to find your daughter but I promise I will do whatever I can.”

  She thanked me through tears and let me out. I left her in the empty house with sadness, silence and two cold cups of tea.

  I hadn’t eaten anything all morning. That wasn’t an anomaly for me, but when I passed the old man in his empty restaurant I made myself stop.

  A Specials menu had been painted up on the wall over the counter.

  “Fried rice and coffee,” I requested, taking the same seat as last time.

  “Are you sure, sir? I can try again with the eggs.”

  He was so eager to improve upon the previous day’s effort that I couldn’t say no.

  “All right. Breakfast Special.”

  “Runny eggs.”

  “If possible.”

  He lumbered into the kitchen leaving me to marinate in the aftershock of my morning. The sadness of that poor woman was sticking to me like a damp sweater.

  If you held up my life and measured it against the rest of the world, it wasn’t so great. But it never had been. That, in some ways, made me lucky. I’d never had anything to lose. Not like that poor Siren and her house of paper memories.

  I took out Edmund’s journal on January and ran my eye across the meticulous notes. Most of them were song ideas or book recommendations. One page was a calendar marking the days of each lesson. There was one scheduled for today, Test – KA, which I doubted either of them would be attending. Every four lessons, KA was written again beside a number and a couple of words: KA – 5th Better. KA – 10th strained. KA – 10th Windy, excusable. The most detailed notes were at the beginning, before it all became shorthand. The first KA section was on the third lesson and accompanied an extended but still cryptic description: KA – fine up to the fifth row but lacks the resonance to carry further with any emotion. Fifth to Tenth can hear words but lacks punch. Eleventh row and beyond almost inaudible.

  He was testing her in a theater. Somewhere outside. Probably a public space that was easy to access. I hadn’t grown into the cultured man I’d once hoped to be, so if there were a theater in this city, I’d certainly never been a patron.

  I racked my brain for half an hour, waiting for the fabled breakfast to arrive. Every now and again, I heard swearing from the kitchen and the silver-haired man would poke his face around the corner.

  “Sorry, sir. Little hiccup. Trying again!”

  Then he would disappear before I could respond. Eventually, I just left payment on the table and let myself out. I wasn’t hungry anyway.

  The information center was a ten-minute walk up the road: short in footsteps but an age in memories. The once-glossy posters that promised opportunity and equality were shrunken and brown inside their cabinets. Brochures with the title Sunder: A World of Work featured an excited Ogre with a pickax in his hands. A banner over the barred kiosk window advertised The Sights to See! with an illustration of the waterfall that came through Brisak Reserve in early spring. In a sad coincidence, the poster had faded to reflect the current reality of the landscape. In the image, as in life, those shimmering blues had faded to a septic green.

  There was a map on the outside wall that had cracked and flaked beyond comprehension. The row of pamphlets along the side had mostly turned to mulch, with pieces scattered like confetti in the soggy leaves. I flicked through the fragile remains of the papers that hadn’t completely fallen apart. Advertisements for zoos, shows and museums had merged into solid blocks. One frayed brick had some kind of circus on the front: Mr Majelin’s Magical Jamboree. The clown’s face was made even more horrific by the warped peeling of the paper. I cracked open the pages and found a rock-hard sheet whose cover had been preserved by the others. The dates of the shows were written across the center: First five days of Summer – Only at the Kirden Amphitheater.

  12

  The faded tourist map was no help so I relied on the reluctant directions of beat cops to lead me through the sodden sports fields and up the embankment.

  There were plenty of free seats in the amphitheater but I stood at the back against a leafless tree. Down on the circular stage, a group of hungry-looking troubadours bounded around in snarling masks and black cloaks. Thirty or so people, mostly children, watched from the marble steps that curved around the stage like the shadow of the moon. I hadn’t seen the play before, but I knew the story. Like a lot of the fables of creation, fact and fiction had been blurred right from the beginning. You could trace any magical creature back to a moment of connection; a divine point in history where the great river reached out and touched reality. Each species had their origin story and the one being played out on stage was one of my favorites.

  This legend begins with Domik Tar, a dark Wizard of old. Through propaganda and promises, he amassed a formidable army of apprentice Mages who followed him across the land to carry out his bidding. For their loyalty, they were to be given the glory of standing at Domik’s side once he had overthrown the entire world. Their army soon grew to such a number that the roving band of evil Wizards needed a settlement to house their swelling ranks. Domik, a servant to none but his ego, selected the base of the Elk River upon which to build his fortress.

  The Elk was a well-known holy wonder of the Northern Valleys. The natural springs that filled it were said to run alongside the great river itself, which infused it with elements of that sacred power. Domik chose a location right beside the mud-flats where the springs came down the mountains and joined as one. This location was, and had always been, inhabited by the Ingari people.

  A tiny village built around the riverbank was home to the small, Half-Elf tribe that lived in a symbiotic connection with the land around them. They valued the health of their environs above all else, and in return, the rivers and forests rewarded them with a bountiful harvest of fish and fruit.

  Being foragers and farmers, they had neither the nature nor the training to fight Domik’s forces, and their entire population was slaughtered in a matter of hours. No ceremony. No remorse. Every last Ingari was left dead in the mud.

  The stones for the fortress were gathered from the mountains. Forests were flattened and turned into tables, beds and bonfires. Soldiers came from surrounding provinces to join the army and assist in the construction of the citadel. By the end of the following year, the great fortress was home to five thousand warriors of many species who were all preparing for war.

  Seemingly impregnable, the building had foundations on both sides of the river with bridges and runways connecting them. The towers were decorated with barred windows and pointed spires on all sides. Domik looked upon his creation and crowned it the Castle of Gargos. With the mountains behind them and the river ahead, an advancing army could be pummeled with arrows and magic-shot from a multitude of positions before they ever got within range of a siege.

  As a final monument to his fearsomeness, Domik commissioned the creation of a hundred statues. From across the lands, he rounded up the most celebrated artists he could find. They were coerced or kidnapped by his apprentices and taken back to the fortress to begin construction. Gathering their mud from the element-rich banks of the Elk, a hundred sculptors created a hundred mighty statues: each one intended to be more monstrous than the last. The artists combed their nightmares for inspiration and created horned, fanged, winged monstrosities that would sit atop the towers and glare down a warning at any adversary that dared to approach.

  The Mages fired the statues in their magic flames, turning the mud into solid stone. Soon, deformed creatures lined every gangway, arch and parapet in the castle. In celebration of the citadel’s completion, the villains toasted their work and drank themselves to sleep.

  There has been no first-person account of what happened that night. The stories choose to pick things up the next morning when the hallways echoed with silence. The Wizard’s magic would have been no use against the stone flesh of the statues, and neither would the soldiers’ swords or
arrowheads. The Ingari had never killed before, but with their finely pointed fingernails and sharpened teeth, they adapted with ease.

  The bodies weren’t thrown into the river this time, but carried far away from the water and buried in fields where they could feed the plants and flowers. When the rain fell the following night, it washed the fortress and its fearsome residents clean of their sins. The Castle of Gargos remains. The statues keep watch by day but at night…

  At night…

  In the old days, before the Coda, you can imagine the end of the story. Stone monsters with hearts of gold flying between bridges and wandering the halls of Gargos. Some strange, sweet justice. But now…

  One of the actors, a rosy-cheeked hourglass with fire in her eyes, walked to the front of the stage and removed her monster mask. She held it out and examined the snarling face.

  “But at night… who knows? The magic that bound the spirits of the Ingari to their fiendish rock forms was a miracle granted by the sacred river. In this age beyond the Coda, the spirit of the world has also turned to stone. Does the Castle of Gargos still come alive at night with ancient spirits or, like the morning after Domik and his forces were wiped from the land, does it sit cold and empty? Perhaps one of you,” she pointed at a nervous-looking boy in the second row, “might have to go and find out.”

  The crowd emitted a small chuckle and the rest of the actors came to the front of the stage to join the woman in a bow. The actor who had played Domik went around with a hat to collect donations. He’d removed his fake beard and cloak, but some of the children still cowered behind their parents when he approached.

  I waited under the tree for the audience to leave and pondered the question of the play. I’d always liked the idea of those rock monsters ruling over their stone castle on the river. I hadn’t stopped to wonder what might have happened since the great separation. I guess I hadn’t wanted to. Just one more tragedy to scratch away inside my mind.

  Once the amphitheater was empty of children, the cast dismantled the backdrop. The men cleared out first, hauling the larger set pieces. I tried to throw a few questions in their path but they grunted past when they realized I wasn’t offering any money.