‘I tolerate a good deal, in this tower,’ she whispered. ‘More than my predecessors. Oh, you wouldn’t have liked them, children. Not at all.’ She nodded fiercely. She stood still, and gazed at the dark sky above. ‘I tolerate a lot. But there is one thing I will not tolerate.’
She gazed at them all, flicking her head back and forth, as if daring someone to challenge her. No one did.
‘We are a tower.’ She said the words in a quiet voice, barely above a whisper, but the Apprentices remained in such dumbstruck silence that they had no trouble hearing their leader.
Brightling stamped her foot on the ground. ‘I am not talking about this building. I am talking about us. The Watchers of the Overland. We are a tower, standing tall in society, casting our shadow across the Plateau. All look to us in wonder, and in fear.’ She nodded, lifted the knife, and very gently tapped it against her skull. ‘A tower stands on all its stones. And if one stone breaks …’
She did not need to say more. Aranfal knew they were all picturing the same thing: the See House, falling to dust.
‘There are two sides to our tower,’ Brightling said. ‘There is the inside, and the outside. We who are on the inside must place each other above all things. We are no longer members of any family, except the family of our tower. And one of you betrayed that trust.’
There was a whimpering sound as a tall, skinny girl rose to her feet. Aranfal couldn’t recall her name, now, but he remembered the look on her face. Torn. She did not make eye contact with Brightling, but she somehow managed to speak.
‘Madam, you are talking about me.’ She sounded braver than she looked.
Brightling nodded. ‘What did you do?’
The girl sniffed. ‘I knew my sister was being investigated, and I sent word to her.’
‘What happened then?’
‘She escaped, ma’am.’
‘Not for long.’
‘No. The soldiers got her.’
At those words, Brightling stamped her foot on the ground again. ‘The soldiers got that traitor! The soldiers!’ She threw the blade on the ground, and the clanking of the steel echoed across the rooftop.
‘Come here,’ she said to the girl, who shuffled towards her with great, heaving sobs. Brightling grasped her by her cloak and dragged her to the edge of the rooftop. She put her hand around the girl’s neck and lifted her, dangling her over the side. She had such strength. Few ever saw it, until it was too late.
Brightling gave a sharp nod. ‘We are a family,’ she said to the girl, though she was speaking to them all. ‘We may hate one another – but we never betray one another to anyone outside the family. The day you do that is the day you are no longer a Watcher. And you have come too far. If you stop being a Watcher, you are nothing.’
All of them murmured the word back to her. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Brightling placed the girl back on the rooftop.
‘Sit down,’ she said.
The girl looked up at her, eyes wide. ‘Are you sure, madam?’ Stupid.
Brightling nodded. ‘That is your first crime against our family, and as your family, we forgive you.’ She jabbed a thumb at the abyss. ‘But this family forgives only once.’
In the land of Chaos, Aranfal halted. He cast a glance at Alexander, and wondered if the boy had brought that memory before him. He thought not. This was a creation of his own mind, brought to vivid life in this place: in this Old Place.
‘You can’t leave her here, Aranfal,’ the boy said, speaking with his own voice once more. ‘You can’t leave her to Chaos and shadows.’
Aranfal shook his head, and turned back into Chaos, where the Shadowthing had now encircled Aleah. They both hung in the air for a moment, before vanishing.
‘Where have they gone, Alexander?’
The boy’s eyes bulged.
‘Away. A bad place: worse than Chaos.’ He spoke in a quiet voice.
‘How do I follow?’
Alexander nodded at the other Shadowthings. ‘You’d have to go with one of them. But I won’t go with you, Aranfal. I won’t go there.’
He looked to the line of dark figures. They did not appear to notice or care about him.
Shadowthings, come for me. Take me away from here.
But the Shadowthings were leaving; their backs were turned, and they were shuffling away to some other part of the Underland.
Come for me! I am here!
They kept on walking away from him, away forever, leaving him behind, leaving him in Chaos.
Please!
One of them stopped. It turned so slowly, and it gazed upon him with its orange eyes. It stood perfectly still for a moment. Perhaps it was considering him, assessing his memories, wondering if he was worthwhile. There was no way to see inside that mind, if it had one at all.
And then the Shadowthing lifted its arm. It raised it slowly, dragging it upward, until a finger of darkness pointed directly at the Watcher.
It felt Aranfal. It nodded. And it began to float towards him.
He was in a candlelit cell. The shadow creature sat in the corner, watching him.
There was a circular doorway leading out to a dark corridor. Aranfal backed towards it, watching the creature as he went. It made no effort to stop him. It doesn’t care where I go. It will find me, wherever I run.
He walked out into the corridor, a place of cold stone and damp walls, like the Bowels of the See House. A line of cells stretched away before him. He glanced at the one opposite and saw a young man lying on the ground, his arm across his head. One of the Shadowthings sat in a nook in the wall, playing with something in its hands. At first glance it seemed to be a sparkling ball of red light, but as he looked upon it, he could see things there: flickering images of the past. A child playing in a garden. A man drinking wine. A woman crying.
Aranfal turned away and began to walk up the corridor, past the other cells. All were the same: a man or woman on the ground, a shadow creature toying with their memories. Draining them.
His mind turned to strange things. He thought of other worlds: worlds without the Machinery, worlds without the Overland and the Underland, worlds without Operators. Could they live without the power of memories? Or would they all end up in cells forever, corpses without a spark?
And then, without expecting it, and without knowing how, he found her.
Aleah was sitting on a wooden stool in the centre of her cell, a prisoner. She wore her dark cloak, and her hands hung by her side, one of them holding her cat mask. Her head leaned backwards, exposing her neck. Her eyes were closed, and her blonde hair was slicked back with sweat.
She was not alone. A Shadowthing stood at her side, holding her in its hands. Yes, holding her: the essence of her, all that she had ever seen or heard or done, the memories of thoughts and mistakes, of unrealised dreams and petty ambitions. They were manifested here, in the hands of this beast, as a patch of blue material, which it stretched in its hands repeatedly, pulling tightly and retracting, over and over. Aranfal saw snippets of Aleah, there, and images of himself.
He stepped forward into the cell and bowed his head before her.
‘She is dead already,’ the creature whispered, in a shuffling voice, a voice of mud being scattered on coffins. ‘All of you who live are dead, whether you know it or not. Your true self is here, in our hands. How can you claim to live when in a moment it is gone, and all that you once were is the property of another?’
Aranfal sensed a presence behind him and turned around. His own Shadowthing was there, glaring down upon him with those fiery eyes. Its patience was wearing thin.
He seized Aleah by the hand. It was cold. Anger burned within him. He had come here to save her and only succeeded in handing himself to these beasts. His noble act was in vain. He had not saved Aleah, and he sensed he was no longer able to help the Eyeless One. He had gone too far in the wrong direction.
As the Shadowthing surrounded him and began to claw at his memories, his own name echoed in his mind. Ar
an Fal. Aranfal. Aran Fal. Aranfal.
Aran Fal.
Aranfal …
But the voice was not his own.
He was in a room, high in a tower, filled with sunlight. This was not the See House. This was another place, from long ago. He knew this, somehow, in the core of his being.
The room was a rough square, its walls and floors formed of smooth stone that gleamed in the sunlight. There was no furniture here, no clutter of any kind: only the Eyeless One, standing alone in the centre.
‘Aleah’s dead,’ Aranfal said. ‘I tried to save her, but I couldn’t.’
The Eyeless One did not respond.
‘We have called an end to the game,’ it whispered. ‘It is done. Everything is at an end. We have watched you all, and we see no hope. We sense, now, that the First Memory will never be found.’
Aranfal shook his head.
‘Let me carry on,’ he said. ‘We can still find it. Nothing’s changed!’
But the Eyeless One shook its head. ‘It is too late. Perhaps it always was. The First Memory is lost forever, and we will not find it. Maybe it already belongs to Ruin.’
Aranfal grasped the creature by the shoulder, grimacing at the coldness of its skin. He despised it, in this moment: he hated its weakness, its casual embrace of defeat.
‘No. This hasn’t all been in vain.’ Aleah dead, for nothing. ‘There must still be something—’
‘There is nothing.’ The creature bowed its head. When it next looked at Aranfal, two eyes stared out at him, black holes that burned with flame.
‘Ruin has won,’ it said. ‘We sense his power grow. Ruin won at the beginning. Our child will become our master, as it was always meant to be. The game is over.’
The eyes disappeared, and a dumb smile spread across the creature’s face.
‘The clouds in the sky are ships on the sea. In the old keep there is a light that burns for one night in the summer. I found my way to a castle, but the wrong people awaited me there.’
‘No – come back to me. Please.’
The Eyeless One raised a hand, and cast Aranfal from its domain.
CHAPTER 19
Canning felt his powers grow, and it was a glorious thing.
He floated between Overland and Underland, travelling with the Duet on some strange current. They were going to the others. They were going to a great table, to play a wonderful game. He could see it.
Something sparkled and grew within him. Power? Understanding was a better word: his feel for the power of memories. Perhaps he had always had these abilities, even when he was a Tactician. But now it all seemed so much clearer; the paths were opening through this strange jungle. He could build a city from the fragments of memory, if he wished. He could turn the oceans dry.
He danced with the Duet. He felt himself flowing within them. He wondered why he had ever mistrusted them. They are my friends. They are my allies. A part of him warned him away from these feelings, but it was quickly smothered.
He saw things in their memories. He saw fleets of ships on red oceans. He saw machines beyond his comprehension. All the knowledge of the Remnants was taken from memories like these, snatched from tiny victories against the Duet and their kin. I could do so much more. I could seize all the wisdom of the world – all the knowledge of history!
His mind thrummed with two words: First Memory. He could sense the awe in the Duet. There is such a power in it. He knew he could make it his own.
His mind occasionally turned to the game. We should go to the table, he thought. But the Duet smiled at him, and shook their heads. There was no rush, he realised. The game could wait, while he danced through power with his friends.
They spoke to him. They whispered of his greatness.
‘There has never been a mortal like you, Canning,’ Boy said.
‘He is no mortal. He is something else – something glorious!’
He inwardly agreed. He was no longer Canning, the failed Tactician. He was the Great Manipulator. He was the King of the Remnants, ally of the Duet. He was their equal. No, he was their master, even if they were no longer tethered by his mind.
‘We are almost there,’ Boy said.
Nothing seemed to have changed. They flew through a sky that was filled with memory, flickering along the line between magic and reality. But up ahead, something was shifting. A building was stretching out before them, one that he knew, though now its stone was Strategist purple and its proportions were vast.
For the first time, a little breath of fear blew through him.
‘This is the Circus,’ he said. ‘But it has changed … what is this place?’
‘The game, Canning – this is where it will be played!’ He was unsure which of them had spoken. It did not matter.
In a moment they were at the feet of a great statue of Katrina Paprissi: the Strategist. Canning looked up and could see only rags. She was too gigantic, her face too far away.
A group of strangers were staring at him. Behind them was an enormous crowd, lined on stone seats, growling and cheering and spitting.
The smaller group came forward: a man and several women. Operators. He could feel it on them. But these were the weaker kind. He could break them in a moment, if he wished.
‘Who’s he then?’ asked one of the women. She had the look of a drunk: thin and jaundiced, cocooned in the fur of some animal. She reminded him of the women of his childhood, the ones who had kissed and beaten him. She swivelled towards him and blinked her eyes. ‘He’s one of the powerful ones,’ she said. ‘Are they back, then?’
‘They never went away,’ said Canning. ‘Not in the Remnants.’
The woman rasped a laugh. ‘Dear me! Never went away, he says. Those down there are children. Not like you.’ She reached out a hand. Her fingernails were painted: yellow and red. ‘I can see you’ve done great things.’
The man spoke, then. He was a jittery type, in a dirty, thin, golden gown.
‘You’re too late. The game’s over.’
Boy raised a hand, and the man fell silent. ‘That’s enough, now. I’m sure they’ll make room for us.’ An angry look crossed his face.
The man shrugged. He did not seem convinced.
‘Come.’ Girl was at Canning’s side. ‘Let’s go up to the table.’
She took him by the hand and led him forward.
‘What did that Operator mean?’ Canning asked.
Girl laughed. ‘He’s just a young one, Canning! Created by one of us just a few thousand years ago. Maybe I made him! I can’t remember.’ She shook her head. ‘Don’t worry about what he says. Don’t worry about him a bit. Why would you be here if there is no game?’
She pointed ahead. The table stretched away from him for as far as he could see, an endless ocean of dark stone.
Boy took him by his other hand. ‘Come,’ he said.
Walking hand in hand with the Duet, Canning made his way forward to the table’s edge. Boy and Girl took him to a pair of chairs, which they clambered into.
‘What do you think of it, Canning?’ Girl cried. ‘Isn’t it beautiful!’
At first, Canning could not quite understand what exactly he was looking at. A manic dance of symbols and images played across the stone. He saw shapes, in the madness, living pictures of stars and moons, animals running across fields, stars sparkling in unreal skies.
‘This is a map of the Old Place,’ Boy whispered in his ear. ‘We are not allowed to go into the game with you, so we come here to watch our pawns, as they run around that glorious realm, searching for the First Memory.’
‘You have such powers, Canning,’ Girl said. ‘If you open your mind, you will be able to see the table as we see it. I am sure of it.’
Canning gnawed at his lip. Something here felt wrong. Somewhere, within his most pathetic recesses, he felt the old Canning begin to stir.
‘But why am I here? Shouldn’t I be there?’ He pointed at the map. ‘Shouldn’t I be in the Underland, for the game?’
‘Who says you are not already?’ Boy glanced at the statues that loomed overhead. ‘What is the difference any more?’
‘No.’ Canning shook his head. ‘I shouldn’t be here. I should be below.’
The board seized his attention. At first, he saw nothing but the haphazard procession of strange symbols and images. As he looked, however, he began to feel a kind of pattern on the stone. There was a burst of blue, which he somehow knew to represent Aranfal, the famous Watcher, the one who had treated him kindly when he languished in the Bowels of the See House. And there was a kind of haze of red … Brandione. They were players, too.
But the board began to change. The colours faded, and the symbols disappeared. He was staring at nothing more than a stone table.
‘What’s happened?’ He turned to the Duet. ‘Where has everything gone?’
They grinned at him. He turned back to the table and, as he looked at that stone, cold realisation dawned.
‘You never meant for me to go down there.’
‘Of course not!’ cried Girl. ‘You betrayed us. You made us your dogs.’
Canning felt a void expand in the pit of his stomach.
‘It was so delicious, Canning – your hopes!’ said Boy. ‘Your dreams! Your delusions!’
‘Thank you for freeing us!’ Girl was dancing at his side. ‘Thank you so very much!’
In the background, the crowd began to laugh. They had all seen him. They had seen his foolishness, his belief that these gods were his friends. They were toying with him; he of all people should have seen that.
He did not turn to face them. He could not look at them, mocking him, as he had been mocked so many times before in his life. He cursed himself, and he tried to push their laughter away. But it would not be ignored. He closed his eyes; he bent forward, until he almost touched the stone of the table. Something within him began to shift; his walls were weakening, and his sense of himself was collapsing. He tried to reach out to the Old Place, to grasp its power and use it against the Duet. But he could not feel it anywhere. It was gone. It had left him, or he had left it.
The laughter crawled within him. He once more faced the Duet, willing it to stop. But it would never end. Boy and Girl had gone, now, and in their place were two curling bodies of pale light. Their eyes were now blue flames, and they burned at him.
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