Cyrus chucked a thumb over his shoulder at Vara. “She stole it.”
“Blame it on her because you couldn’t be arsed to procure three for yourselves.” He shook his head sadly. “You’re supposed to bring hope, and that takes work, real commitment—dedication.” He stared at Cyrus, eyes full of a heady seriousness. “Fix it up. You’re shaming us all.” And with that, he turned his back and walked off.
Alaric and Vara both let out a cascade of snickers as soon as the man was out of earshot, and Cyrus was left there, mouth gaping, as the authority on all things Cyrus disappeared into the crowd.
“Well, he certainly told you,” Vara said, reaching his side, shoulders still heaving with laughter.
“Yes,” Alaric said, beset by a wicked case of guffaws, “how dare you leave your armor in such damaged conditions? Why, it’s almost as if it bears the marks of the gods themselves trying to strike you down.”
“You laugh now,” Cyrus said, “but when everybody in this town realizes I’ve come back, that guy is going to feel like an idiot.”
“Perhaps,” Alaric said, moving back toward the gates of the Citadel, “but that presupposes that you make your triumphant return and are seen by everyone rather than just a few isolated souls, comparatively speaking.”
“And also finding more courageous followers,” Vara said. “The speed at which that crowd dispersed after the explosion at the coal yard suggested that some might not have been as faithful as you’d hope, oh mighty Lord Davidon.”
“What have we here?” one of the guards asked as they approached, his hail quelling their further banter. The guard looked to his fellows. “Another Cyrus Davidon. What can we do for you today, Lord Davidon?” And he looked to Cyrus.
“I’m here to see the Lord Protector,” Cyrus said.
“Of course you are,” the guard said. “Who shall I tell him is calling?” At this, the guard looked most amused.
“Tell him it’s your father,” Cyrus shot back. “And by the by, I bring greetings from your mother. She’s naked and missing me, so do be quick about letting me pass so I can get back to her before the bed gets too cold.”
The guard’s expression hardened immediately. “Get out.”
“Make m—” Cyrus started to say, but Vara seized him by the arm and began to drag him away bodily.
“Your friends are wiser than you are!” the guard shouted after him, face a deep crimson.
“And you’re dumber than your mother and I ever suspected!” Cyrus called back. “You’ll regret this moment when the Lord Protector finds out I’ve returned.”
Whatever reply the guard might have made, Cyrus missed it, because Vara was grunting as she wrestled him away. He wasn’t fighting back, as such, but neither did he simply go lifeless and let her drag him.
“That was not particularly wise,” Alaric said once they were far enough away that Cyrus could barely see the guard’s glare.
“We weren’t getting through there no matter what we said,” Cyrus said, feeling the pressure of Vara’s hand upon his arm. “You heard him. They must get a dozen impersonators a day trying to announce themselves to the Lord Protector. Hell, the guy who lectured me on my armor probably just did the same thing.”
“Still, starting a fight with guards? Reckless,” Vara said, finally letting go of him.
“I didn’t start a fight,” Cyrus said, “I just didn’t let his insults go unanswered.”
“Indeed,” Alaric said, “you threw them back most adroitly, escalating the situation far beyond what it needed in order to—” He paused, turning his head. “Did you see that?”
“What?” Cyrus turned to look where his gaze had indicated. He had missed whatever it was, but—
Alaric had looked in the direction of the square, and as soon as Cyrus did the same, he did note something strange. There was a faint glow in the distance, almost like an afterimage of lightning, as though he’d turned his head a moment after it had struck and he’d only caught it for a fraction of a second.
There was a commotion coming from that way, now, shouting and scuffling, people running and trying to move away in panicked haste.
“It would appear that something is amiss,” Vara said, her head cocked to point her right ear toward the source of the disturbance. “Definitely a skirmish of some sort.”
“Oh, good,” Cyrus said, reaching for his blade, “I could use a—”
She slapped his hand away, beating Alaric to doing the same by milliseconds. “No.”
“Oh, come on,” Cyrus said, plaintive.
“Perhaps we should find out what it is first,” Alaric said, starting to push against the crowd, “before we rush in with violence.”
“I know you’ve been insulted twice in the last few minutes,” Vara said, lingering with him for a second more, “but do try to keep that pride of yours in check.” She kissed him, then followed Alaric.
It was the mildest of rebukes, but it burned his cheeks nonetheless. “Fine,” he grunted, keeping his hand on Praelior’s hilt but not pulling it as he started to push through the crowd toward the square, “but mark my words—I’m going to need it, and you’re probably going to wish I had it drawn, if this day continues the way it has.” And he followed after them, hurrying to see what new madness awaited them ahead.
40.
Shirri
Shirri had nearly made it through Reikonos Square when it happened. She was on her long walk to the airship docks, taking a very slight detour, but still the most direct route she could without traipsing by a Machine stronghold. The docks were less than ten minutes from the square, and all she needed to make was a five-minute detour. Freedom was so close she could almost taste the dirty, oily air that hung around the docks like a cloud of grease and particulates. She’d been there before, and it was almost as though it clung to your skin, to your body after you’d been there, like the steam diffusing through the air carried that smell with it and sprayed it upon all who passed.
There was no hint of that here in the square, though. Here it was the stink of unwashed bodies that made her want to hold her nose, the scent of horse droppings all peppered throughout like tiny mountains piled all over that one needed to avoid with every step.
There was also the intoxicating aroma of bakers, of spirit sellers, of others plying their wares in some vast, sprawling enterprise that spilled over out of the widely renowned markets. Once, Shirri had heard, Reikonos had boasted the largest markets.
That was no longer true, of course. Since the days when they’d made contact with Coricuanthi, with Imperial Amatgarosa, with Chaarland, and even nearby Firoba, it had been well known that all of those lands boasted cities with markets that put Reikonos’s to shame. It was a strange thing, to hear such far-off stories and think that—yes, soon, perhaps, she’d see these long-awaited mysteries for herself.
The lingering regret, though, was far more powerful than any hope she felt from the idea of escaping this place. It would take every last piece of gold, she expected, every last note she carried on her person. She’d be starting in Binngart or Vanreis or wherever with nothing.
Still … that was better than being in the not-so-tender hands of the Machine.
Initially, the ruckus upon the square wasn’t any worse than it usually was. It was always busy and noisy, the crowds surging, and Shirri did her best to avoid the largest cluster. It was moving like a sea, backwards and forwards, and she glanced over as she tried to skirt the edge. Something was happening at its center, something which had raised an outrage that she could almost hear … if she concentrated …
“He’s back, I tell you!” came a man’s voice, shouted high. “Cyrus Davidon has returned!”
That shouldn’t have given her pause, and yet Shirri came to a stop so that she could listen, strain to lift herself up to see. She couldn’t, of course, the crowd was too tall. She tried to peer through the gaps between shoulders and heads, but had little more luck. All she could tell through the forest of people was that there wa
s a man, he was perhaps on a box of some sort to give him height, and he was shouting over a crowd that was doing plenty of shouting back.
“Liar!”
“Blasphemer!”
“I tell you, he’s back!” the man shouted, even louder. “I have seen him with my own eyes, and I watched as he struck at the Machine—first he hit a slaver house, then a coal yard—and finally, went for one of the mills! He has jammed his sword in the eye of the Machine and then spit after it! The mighty Lord Davidon has seen our need and comes to answer—”
The crowd roared as something happened that Shirri could not see. The shouting man’s voice stopped, and somewhere in the crowd another shout rose: “Leave him alone!” and “Let him speak, you bastards!”
Now people turned and shoved, trying to disperse, and soon enough she had a clear view of what had happened.
And it was enough to make her wish she hadn’t.
A good twenty Machine thugs were arrayed around the box where the man had been speaking. They’d clubbed him down, and he was on the cobbles, blood running out from his head. Shirri’s heart leapt into her throat as though it were prepared to flee her very body if she didn’t start moving to get away from this—this spectacle—
And yet her feet were rooted to the spot. The surge had been there when first she’d seen them. Immediate, urgent, it told her to run, as it always had. It was that small voice in the back of her head, the one that whispered, There is no hope in Reikonos, and it was a compelling one. Compelling enough that she’d followed it all her life, and was even following it now—to the airship docks and then, if she were fortunate, to Firoba.
But in that moment, that small voice—that very commanding voice—seemed to get … quieter. Something else surged to the front of her mind, something long forgotten. It was an entirely different voice, one that she recalled—vaguely—from the days before Jaimes Johnstone shoved her down in the street as a child, and she spent all the rest of her childhood avoiding him. It was a quiet voice, drowned out by the fear, drowned out by the desire to run, far, far away.
The Machine was everywhere in Reikonos. Here it stood before her, clubbing a man down for nothing more than speaking about some ludicrous man in black armor showing up to mimic an icon. Was it not news, even though this Cyrus was an imposter? Shouldn’t you at least be able to speak about it without fear of being clubbed insensate, possibly even to death?
All Shirri’s breath went out of her as the crowd continued to run away. She’d been afraid for so long; it had been a part of her, that voice. It wrapped itself around her very soul, constricted her heart, so much a part of her and she had not noticed its tumorous presence in every facet of her life until this moment.
Now, it was as though her eyes were opened, and a clarity swept over the world, painting in new, vivid colors. Her heart beat faster, and Shirri stared at these men—these—these—well, they were like Jaimes Johnstone, weren’t they?
Thugs. Toughs. Bullies.
They were laughing and crowing over the fallen man, in their long black coats with white armbands, and she stared at them most peculiarly. It was like snapping awake after a nightmare, like the freezing cold water in a winter bath. She plunged in, though, the clear-headedness splashing upon her, and that almost-forgotten voice—it sounded, just a bit, like Alaric’s—
“Enough.” Shirri stepped forward where all others fled. The word left her lips before she’d fully formed the thought. The Machine visited their injustice on this city, over and over, without fail, without rest, every single day. They found you in your home, they accosted you on the street, and Davidon help you if you had a secret, because they’d try and find that, too, and never leave you alone once they knew it—
“I said enough.” Shirri took another step forward and raised her hand at the nearest cluster of them. She said the words in her head, as her mother had taught her, and lightning bloomed from her fingers. It sparked and danced and caught the nearest of the Machine’s thugs, running from him to his nearest five comrades, and soon they all joined his dance of nerves, jerking and spasming as her spell ran through them.
“Enough!” Shirri said and shot another bolt to the left. It caught another group of them, and they, too, joined the dance, six of them flailing violently, the sparking, flashing light of the lightning coursing through them until it finally dispersed with a great crack and sent the thugs flying. “Enough of you!” And she shot another, catching three of them off to the side. “Enough of the Machine!” Another that sparked into two of them pulling their pistols. “ENOUGH,” she raised her voice. “I … have … had … ENOUGH—”
With the last she brought down a bolt out of the clear sky and it touched her hands for but a second before launching at the last of them. Some were fleeing, some were standing, awestruck before they got actually struck, and this blast found almost the last of them. It was more powerful and less merciless, and it left some seven of them smoking after it sent them flying.
“Gy—ahhh!” shouted the ringleader, for he was the only one left standing. He quivered, stepping back from the man who’d been speaking, the bloody man he’d struck down. His hands were up, his weapons discarded. All the fear that Shirri felt she might have just left behind had somehow found another host; it was all upon this man’s face, flooding out of him as he hit his knees with his fingers laced together as though he were about to pray to her. “I’m sorry,” he said, hoarse, bowing his head and looking up at her through frightened eyes. “Please—please don’t kill me—”
That hit Shirri strangely, and now it felt as though she experienced a second awakening, as though she’d been in some sort of dream state. Now she found herself looking around, seeing what she’d wrought, and it sent a chill down the flesh of her back and ripped the breath from her.
The men she’d attacked … the men she’d struck …
They were dead. Some of them were even on fire.
She raised her hands before her, staring at them. They shook, now that the deed was done. That fearlessness, the courage that had hit her like hard whiskey, fled, and she came crashing back down to the square from the heavens where it felt like she’d been striding a moment before. She blinked, and looked at the man who’d been struck down, the speaker, and something flared to life in her, some panic, some guilt, fear of being caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to—
Her hands glowed, softly, just for the space of a second, and the speaker stirred, raising his head. The blood had stopped flowing, but his eyes were glossy, and they found hers. He moaned and started to speak, but nothing coherent came forth.
“I—I don’t understand,” Shirri said, blinking at him. He was moaning, lifting a hand, pointing at her. She cocked her head, trying to decipher, and his finger moved, just a little to her left—
No, he wasn’t pointing at her.
He was pointing past her.
She realized it just as the first heavy footstep broke its way through the crowd noise, and she spun in time to receive the club fully upon her forehead. It might have crashed upon the base of her skull had she not wheeled, but now she caught it full on, and the pain stunned her, driving her to her knees.
“Look what we have here,” came a strangely familiar voice. She brought her eyes up even as blood ran into them, and found herself staring at a desperately familiar face.
McLarren.
“If it isn’t our wayward mage,” McLarren said, spite dripping from between his split lips. He had a cruel smile on his pale face, and his flat accent and the scar that dressed his right brow from forehead to chin, with nothing but a white and dead eye between was enough to bring back that fear that Shirri had thought she left behind only a moment before.
McLarren lifted high his club once more, and before Shirri could so much as raise a hand against him, he brought it down. The square flashed before her as though another bolt had been summoned down. Shirri fell to the ground, but barely felt it after the thud of the club against her skull, and soon enough
she was simply out, in the dark, without any respite from the thing she feared … the thing that had found her at last.
41.
Cyrus
“It’s like a riot going on here,” Cyrus said, pushing his way into the square. It had changed, though not nearly as much as the buildings around it.
“A fleeing crowd hardly constitutes a riot,” Vara said, shoving aside some poor soul who had made the mistake of occupying with their body the space she was transiting. “In a riot, there would be rage, more anger, more—”
“I feel rage,” Alaric said as they burst through a clot of crowd forcing its way into the street. Now that they were in the square proper, they found that it was nearly empty save for a thickset bunch at the far end huddled around a horse-drawn cart. Cyrus’s eyes followed the trajectory of the Ghost, who was moving swiftly toward the trouble, and there—
Cyrus saw it. A figure being loaded into the back of the carriage cart, small, waifish—
“Shirri,” Vara said and broke into a run to follow Alaric’s. Cyrus took off after them both, clutching Praelior.
A man with a deep facial scar running down his right side and a blind right eye leapt up into the back of the cart with her and slapped the side. “Go!” he urged, and the cart stirred to action as the innumerable thugs of the Machine turned to follow this man’s pointed finger as he raised it toward Cyrus and his companions. “Stop them!”
“That’ll work out swimmingly for these idiots, I’m sure,” Vara said as she sprinted for them. Cyrus, two steps behind, held similar feelings, but was preparing himself for the fight and did not bother to express them.
Another cart was rattling into the square and clattered to a stop, replacing the one that contained Shirri. It burst open, more Machine thugs pushing their way out. These were carrying things—long, almost the length of a sword but with piping that made them look like—
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