by Daryl Banner
Athan was told the Slum King was a peaceful man.
He didn’t quite believe it until now.
When they reach the main square, Athan is astonished by its size. Spread over the space are different colored tents and stations of friendly folk selling food, art, pottery and dyed clothes, shoes and leathers, and belts. It’s overwhelming.
But not nearly as overwhelming as the place they are taken to at the other end of the square. It appears from the outside to be a wide yet short building that has, unexplainably, been overgrown by a number of very thick, twisted trees. Long, spindly branches bursting with bright green and yellow leaves reach up out of the roof. Small explosions of colorful blooms live here and there. The building itself could easily compete with the most prestigious of Lifted gardens.
“This way,” says the guard as he leads them to a door, hidden between two thick roots that grow down either side of it and strike into the pavement. “I hope you are not sensitive with … allergies.”
The four are welcomed inside. There seems to be no internal lighting, and yet everything is gorgeously lit up by natural light that seeps in through the roof, some of the light tinted green by large thin leaves that hang overhead. Vines run down every wall, some with colorful blooms and flowers, others with thorns, and some smooth as snakeskin. Every piece of furniture looks to be made of natural-cut wood, left unpolished and untreated by human hands or chemical.
It seems they’re pulled through seven different rooms before at last being brought to a large round room that looks like a dining hall. One big sawed-off tree trunk, coming up waist-high, rests in its center with a number of chairs set around it.
A young man about Athan’s age stands at one end of the table. He wears jeans and a white t-shirt that rests lazily on his slender, unassuming shape. His face is dusted with freckles, and his hair is fiery red and bright, a complement to Nickel’s similarly bright hair. To the young man’s side is a burly, muscular block of a man. To his other side is a curvy, beautiful woman who also has shiny red hair, but hers falls down her front, curtaining her large breasts, which proudly show cleavage in her low-cut tight green blouse.
The guard steps forward and gestures toward them. “My King, might I present the company of Athan Broadmore, and his friends, Locke, Edrick, and Nicky.”
“Nickel,” corrects Nickel, bristling.
“What a pleasure!” says the young, freckled man, then spreads his hands. “Welcome to the Ferns! Please, my guests, have a seat at our round table. You are among friends here.”
Athan is confused. “Wait. Are you—?”
“Chole is my name,” says the young man.
This boy is the Slum King? He might barely be older than me, and he commands four wards beneath him? “I … A-Alright.” Athan finds his manners. “It is a pleasure to meet you, King Chole.”
“Just Chole will do,” he insists with a wink, then gestures at the chairs again. “Please, sit, rest. You’ve come quite some ways.”
Athan sits across from Chole. Locke sits to his left next to the big muscular one, and Edrick and Nickel take the seats to Athan’s right, Nickel sitting nervously by the beautiful woman with the fiery red hair, who regards Nickel with an amused smile and a wink, which makes Nickel look nervous and annoyed.
“So let’s have it out, my new friend, Athan Broadmore,” starts Chole. “What brings you here? I was told it is an urgent matter, so please, go right on ahead and say it. I’m all ears.”
As Athan gathers his words, someone is by to set cups before each of them. He’s a hospitable King. I feel as if we’re visiting a friend’s house down the street—a friend who is very fond of the Greens. “Well, it so happens our matter is one that might affect all of Atlas, if it isn’t properly handled soon.”
“That doesn’t sound so good,” sings Chole with a hint of humor. The bulky one to his side chuckles once, then falls silent. “What is it? What’s this citywide matter?”
Athan can’t tell whether Chole’s flippantness is a sign of being comfortable and friendly, or being rude and dismissive.
Athan assumes the former, so as to keep things polite. “Our problem is the Greens. There is a disease crippling the crops, from the Wall-side, working its way in. It’s affecting all the Greens, from the ninth to the edge of the sixth.”
Chole’s face turns serious. “Oh, I see.” Another person makes the rounds, filling each of their cups with an amber-colored fluid. Tea or apple juice or an amber wine, if Athan had to guess. “This … is quite a serious matter.”
“So I am asking for your help,” Athan explains. “I understand you have a Legacy that deals with plants. You might easily be able to rectify this crippling problem in our Greens, yes?”
“Easily,” agrees Chole.
The King hasn’t touched his drink, and so neither does Athan.
The same is not true for Edrick, who lifts his cup to his lips and downs the whole thing in three gulps. “Goodness, I’m thirsty,” hisses the pleasure boy to himself. When he realizes he’s drawn a little bit of attention, he sets his cup down gently, rolls his eyes, and mutters, “Well, carry on. Don’t mind me.”
The beautiful redheaded woman leans forward in her seat. “You are asking our King to put himself at great risk,” she points out, her voice honeyed yet strong, “if he were to do this favor for you.”
“The favor isn’t for me,” Athan counters lightly. “The favor is for the Last City of Atlas.” He faces the King. “Your power could save the city from an unfortunate drought of produce, vegetation, and fruit—its main source of all three. Not to mention the contaminated water supply that might result from the side effects of the disease.”
Chole nods slowly, seeming to mull it over. Then at once he kicks back in his chair and draws his hands behind his head, leaning back casually. “I’d wondered why supply was slow. We have gotten less and less seed by the day.”
Athan quirks an eyebrow. “Less seed? You’re …” He’s trying to catch up. “You’re trading with the Greensfolk already?”
“We have an arrangement in place with them, yes,” he confirms. “Seed in exchange for items and materials. The Greens Wardens—there are four if I’m right, one for each zone—made a deal with me many months ago. I am especially fond of the Greens Warden in the eighth. Though his humor’s crude, he is an entertaining and rather cooperative guy. We get along well.”
“So you’ve been to the Greens? You have a safe route you take?”
“No, I’m afraid not. The Greens Wardens come to me.”
Why didn’t Arrow tell me this? Did he even know? “Well, if it’s safety that’s your worry, I can assure you you’ll be safe with us. We made an uneventful passage through the Core without trouble.”
“A boring passage, in fact,” mumbles Edrick, then he eyes the one who brought the drinks and whispers, “Can I have some more?”
The redheaded woman snorts with amusement.
It’s the muscled brute of a man at Chole’s other side that makes a protest. “Aye, I’m not so convinced. Guardian is everywhere, in the Core in particular, and they are not so fond of our King. They see him as a rebellist. How do we know this isn’t some elaborate trap? Guardian fuckers have been out for our King for months, trying to infiltrate us, trying to assassinate us, trying to—”
“Now, now, Ranklin,” murmurs Chole, placing a calming hand on the man’s big shoulder. “Don’t work yourself up. Remember, we are among friends. The ninth folk are a peaceful folk. Is it true?” he asks suddenly, turning back to Athan. “Do you folk have a self-patrol agreement with Guardian, effectively keeping them out of your ward and your business just as they are kept well out of ours?”
Athan gives an uncertain tilt of his head. “It’s … something like that. We can’t exactly keep them out of the inner ward, the depths of the city—downtown ninth, as we call it sometimes. But they do stay away from the outer ninth, the neighborhoods and the Greens.”
“I see.” Chole strokes his chin with
his other arm crossed over his chest, hugging his body.
“You are looking at me strange,” notes Locke suddenly, pulling attention his way. Athan finds that he’s talking to the woman, a look of annoyance on his face. “Is something bothering you?”
The woman, indeed, looks pensive and uncomfortable.
Chole picks up on it, and it seems that something clicks within him. He glances at Locke. “What’s your Legacy, might I ask?”
Locke eyes them both. “I don’t suspect it’s important at all.”
“I suspect it is,” counters Chole with a polite smile.
“What’s going on?” asks Athan, looking back and forth between them, concerned.
It’s the woman who answers. “I am a Mentalist, yet find that his mind is a complete … blank. Like it isn’t even there.”
“What business have you probing in my big head anyway?” he asks. “Besides, the thick shade over my mind is something I cannot control. Consider it a side effect of my Legacy.”
“It is a convenient side effect,” she replies coolly, unamused.
Chole interjects with a friendly smile. “It matters not, my friends and Council. Aye, speaking of, have I introduced my Council? This is Mira, my Marshal of Legacy. To my other side, Ranklin, my Marshal of Order. Sadly, my Marshal of Peace is absent due to his inability to be under this roof long enough not to sneeze himself to death.” He chuckles. “Actually, he is handling some business in the third ward.”
“So we are all met,” agrees Athan, attempting to steer the mood into something more amicable. After all, their one and only goal here is to enlist the Slum King’s help, not drive him away with attitude. “Thank you for your hospitality and for receiving us. I think we—”
“Please, you needn’t say more.” Chole rises from his seat and extends his hand across the table. “I will restore the Greens.”
Athan feels his heart grow light at once. He rises and shakes the young man’s hand. The skin is rougher than he expected from such a soft-looking person. “Thank you, Chole.”
“But … I must ask for something in return.” Their hands are still clasped over the table. “I know you are a free folk. We are, despite our weaponry and diplomacy, a free folk as well. People are free to come and go as they please from my Coalition, including even my Marshals and my loyal guardsmen and guardswomen.”
Athan nods uncertainly. “Alright. And ... what is this thing you ask for in return?”
Chole smiles. “I ask that, if the day comes that we must take up arms against Sanctum and the sky, you consider us an ally, and raise your arms with us. Come to our aid and fight by our side. Aye, I see the hesitation in your eyes,” Chole says at once, inclining his head, “but I do know that your ward, with such easy access to the forges and the anvils, is well-armed with weapons and armors aplenty. I’d be a certain fool if I didn’t request such a strategic alliance.”
Athan realizes the problem here. The ninth is considered a free ward for a reason: they take no part in the politics of the sky. Athan has heard countless times the rhetoric of his ninth ward neighbors, how they want to keep out of the war just as much as they kept out of the Madness. The Red Bolt of Light never came for them, partly due to their being so far away from its range, but also because they kept away from the innards of the city—safe, sound, and in peace.
Agreeing to this alliance will threaten that peace.
This isn’t a decision I can make alone.
“I’m afraid I don’t have the authority or the right to … request such a thing from the people of the ninth,” Athan admits. “They are not just a peaceful, free folk by accident. They demand their peace. After the Madness, they want absolutely nothing to do with—”
“It would be a last resort,” Chole assures him. “We do not take matters of war lightly. I wish very much to achieve an overthrowing of Sanctum without a single life wasted. Even that Queen on the throne deserves a peaceful go at life, once she is relieved from that position that was so clearly forced upon her by the crazed posse.”
Athan knows that girl on the throne. Erana Sparrow, the one who helped him break free from Sanctum after Anwick was touched. Athan finds himself warmed by this young man’s compassion even for the Queen of Atlas, his supposed adversary. Maybe this Chole guy is the real thing …
“So can we consider ourselves allied, then?” asks Chole.
They still hold hands across the table.
Athan gives it a second firm shake and a gentle nod.
0314 Tide
Tide stands by the guarded door to the Ferns, arms crossed, jaw tightened, and waiting.
“How much longer?” he snaps at the guard.
The guard shrugs. “I cannot say.”
I could steal all the air from this man’s lungs if I wished. It would be so easy, I might laugh. “I’ve never been denied entry before.”
“He’s in a meeting.”
“I attend the meetings.”
“He’s in a special meeting.”
“I attend special meetings.”
Then the door behind the guard swings open, and four people exit from the Ferns: a stubble-faced pale man with a black scarf tied around the top of his head, a tall and slender young man, an orange-haired freckled boy, and—
Tide blinks. I know that last one.
“You!” calls out Tide, coming forward.
The fourth one who just exited the Ferns, the blond-haired, shorter boy with the muscular form and bright eyes, turns. When he sees Tide, his eyebrows lift with a mixture of surprise and alarm.
“Yeah, that’s right,” growls Tide, coming right up to him. “I’ve seen your stupid face before. It was in the Abandon, wasn’t it? Long ago, during the thick of the Madness. You were in the Abandon, you came right up to me, and you …” It occurs to him right then, what this stupid blond pretty boy had asked him. “You were looking for that fucker Wick. And you knew my name.”
The others flank the boy protectively. He’s got friends. So what?
“Tide,” the boy starts. “You … You still don’t—?”
“Don’t say my name, pretty boy, or I’ll put a few fists to your teeth and make you less pretty.” He huffs in the boy’s face. “What’re you doing here in my ward? What business have you with Chole?”
The blond boy puts a hand up to hold back the orange-haired one, who looked like he was going to try something. “Don’t,” the boy tells his friend. “This is an old friend of mine.”
Tide frowns at that. “An old friend??” he spits back, incredulous.
The boy faces him. “Quite a while ago, yes. I was just here to meet with King Chole. He’s the only one who can help us with a dire problem in the Greens. We’re escorting him with us to take care of the problem.”
Tide bristles at that. He’s leaving with this fucker? What about his business in the Abandon? What about Gin? “N-No he’s not,” he blurts indignantly. “You’re not escorting him anywhere, pretty boy.”
Again, the orange-haired one steps forward, and again, the boy holds him back with just one muscled arm.
Tide snorts. “I don’t trust a single blond hair on your stupid blond head. You were looking for Wick, last I saw you. I pray you’ve found that fucker by now, because when I see him next, I’m going to punch him in his smug face until you can’t see his eyes anymore.”
In spite of all of Tide’s ire, the boy merely takes a breath, looks him in the eye, and says, “He’s dead.”
For a second, Tide doesn’t react, as if the words flew right past his ears. Then he takes a step back and squints, confused. Dead? His mouth goes dry. All of his pre-prepared thoughts for this one fateful moment he’s been waiting for vanish at once.
“I don’t know what went on between you two,” Athan then tells him, “or why you’d come to hate him so much. But what I do know is, when you two were working side-by-side together as part of Rain, death was never something he wished on you. You were friends.”
Rain …?
What
the fuck is “Rain” …?
“I am Athan Broadmore,” the boy goes on. “You and I were once friends, too. All of us, members of Rain, a group in the ninth. We—”
“I suffered a memory loss,” Tide blurts at once.
Why am I telling him this?
He stares into the boy’s soft eyes, scared, and a sick and twisting desperation claws its way out of Tide’s being.
He needs to know the truth.
In one quick instant, nothing else in the whole Last City of Atlas matters to Tide Wellport except to know the first damn thing about the memory he lost.
“I was in my house,” Tide goes on, “and … and this … this man was leaving. A bald man with a cane. I remember his cane … the sound of it … smack … smack … I heard it as he left. Nearly a month and a half of my life was gone, just like that. I …” His desperation turns instantly to anger. “What the fuck happened before that? Did he bring me home? Does he know what happened to me?”
“His name is Yellow,” states the pretty boy Athan, “and he’s the one who took your memories.”
Tide blinks.
My memories were … taken …?
“Your memories of Rain,” Athan clarifies solemnly. “That is his Legacy, to erase memories.”
I’ve never heard his name. “Who …?”
“The bald man you just mentioned. The one with the cane. He was one of the two who was head of Rain. The other is a woman named Gandra. Do you remember her?” Athan then asks. “She also went by the name of Frey.”
“Frey? That’s the name of my profess—” Tide blinks, suffering a very sudden vision of his Professor Frey, except it was not at school. He sees her by a train station. She’s looking at him with these funny, half-scolding, half-amused eyes. Why am I seeing this? “F-Frey …”
“Frey is Gandra. Your professor.” Athan’s voice drops as he says this, like it is a profoundly sad thing. “She was the leader of Rain. You were recruited, more or less. Wick and Rone were members, too.”
