The Void Trilogy 3-Book Bundle

by Peter F. Hamilton

  “So you’re the easy way?”

  Ranalee ran her gaze lecherously along his naked body. “Lust for power wasn’t the only craving you exposed. All men are the same in the end. I enjoyed that part as much as you did.”

  “I refuse to play this game with you.”

  “Idiot.” She sighed in disgust and held out an arm. Her third hand fished a long robe from the closet, and it glided through the air to her. “But then our children were never going to inherit their intelligence from you, were they?”

  Edeard clambered off the bed, feeling intolerably weary. He was also disgusted with himself, because he knew that part of the night had been true. Her insidious power had unleashed what lay within him.

  “It might already be too late for you,” she taunted.

  He recovered his underwear. “What do you mean?”

  She patted her stomach. “I’m at the right time in my cycle, and you certainly delivered adequately. I’ll be such a good mother. I’ll even keep it if it’s a boy. He can start breeding in a little over a decade. A rival to you.” She smiled to deliver maximum hurt.

  Edeard’s heart fluttered. There was a phial of vinak juice in his luggage. He’d been so desperate to get her into the bedroom, he’d never taken it. She hadn’t given him time. All deliberate, he knew now.

  Fool! She’s right. You really are nothing but a backward peasant!

  Ranalee caught his distress and laughed.

  Edeard’s third hand gripped her and shoved her up into the canopy above the bed. Her eyes bulged with shock as she found she couldn’t breathe. Below her, Edeard pulled on his shirt, taking his time, not looking up. “I lack your skill in killing unborns,” he said calmly, “so I’d have to eliminate you to make sure he was never born into the life you envisage for him—or her.” He eased off a fraction, and Ranalee sucked down precious air. “You’re too weak,” she hissed furiously.

  “Sometimes you have to do what’s wrong in order to do what’s right.” He let go of her.

  Ranalee crashed down onto the big bed, bouncing hard on the mattress. She scrambled around and found Edeard leaning over her. She shrank back in trepidation from the expression on his face and the timbre of his thoughts.

  “You should never talk so casually about death and killing,” he told her. “Not to those of us who have killed and will kill again.”

  “You’ll die alone with your dreams broken,” she cried defiantly.

  “If you are pregnant, you will inform me, and I will bring the child up myself.” He pulled on his boots, and went out into the night, leaving his luggage behind.

  It was a long miserable walk back to Makkathran. With only himself for company he was forced to face aspects of his psyche that he didn’t much admire. Again and again he considered Ranalee’s proposal. He suspected she might be right about how impossible it would be to rip the gangs out of Makkathran. Dear Lady, was this the proposal Finitan spoke of? It can’t be. It can’t.

  How he longed for Akeem’s wisdom. Just one last question for his old Master. When he pictured Akeem’s kindly ancient face, his old Master was shaking his head in that amused dismay of his that had greeted so many apprentice follies, as if to say: You already know the answer.

  When dawn did eventually break and Edeard begged a lift from a farmer driving his cart to market, he was resolved. He would take on Ivarl and the gangs on his own terms. That way he gave himself a victory over the darker nature resting in his soul.

  Now, looking along the brightly lit tunnel that seemed to go on forever beneath the city, Edeard knew he had another long, lonely trek home.

  “I really am going to have to get help to deal with these bastards,” he decided wearily. Neither the tunnel nor the city answered him. He shrugged and got to his feet again. It wasn’t quite as painful as the last time. He looked one way, then the other. There was absolutely no difference between them. Both ways saw the tunnel extend out to the vanishing point. The silence was starting to get to him. It was as profound as the time he’d used his third hand to defend himself against Ranalee’s voice.

  Talents, she’d said, useful little talents. Plural. Edeard had never heard of anything like the liquid light Ivarl and Tannarl could manifest. And to think, when he’d hauled Arminel back to justice across the surface of Birmingham Pool, he’d considered himself invincible. It made him wonder how many other nasty little surprises the aristocratic families kept among themselves.

  He probed around with his farsight, trying to find out exactly where he was. The tunnel was very deep. He examined the structure above him, searching for a clue to his fall, the direction he’d come from. Makkathran had altered itself again to let him through, but he couldn’t detect any difference in the solid bulk overhead. When he focused, he thought he glimpsed something. His farsight swept back, and there he was. It was like an image of himself embedded in the city’s substance: falling, with his arms waving madly, his coat trailing smoke. As he studied the image, it moved slowly. If he focused on the substance above, it seemed to rise back, following his own point of concentration. When he changed direction, so did the image. Memory, he realized in delight. The city remembers me.

  Edeard tracked the image of himself to the place where it dropped out of the tunnel roof. It was kind of funny to see himself landing splat on the floor, but it still didn’t tell him which way to walk, just where the House of Blue Petals stood above. He reached out for the city’s peaceful thoughts, and projected an image of Transal Street in Jeavons, where he always employed a disused cellar to go down into the canal tunnels. Do you have a memory of how to get there? he queried.

  There were no images, which he’d only half expected, anyway. Then he began to scrabble around for his footing because the tunnel was somehow tilting. The floor shifted down alarmingly fast, and Edeard slipped onto his back. He started sliding along the smooth surface, picking up speed as the angle kept increasing. It was already way past forty-five degrees and building. The infinite line of red lights was flashing past. He instinctively knew what was going to happen next, even though it was utterly impossible. How can a tunnel possibly tilt?

  There was never any answer. The only sound in the tunnel was Edeard’s scream as he began to fall down the now-vertical shaft.

  When he stopped to draw breath, he didn’t bother screaming again; after all, this was how he had dropped down into the canal tunnels. It was just that he never had had such an impression of speed before. Maybe if he shut his eyes …

  He opened them hurriedly. That was too much; he had to match up what he was seeing with what his body felt. The red lights were now a solid smear, he was going so fast. This was the freedom of the ge-eagles! A side tunnel flashed past, and he gasped in shock. Before he could wonder where it led, another had come and gone. He managed a tentative laugh. No one had ever traveled like this. It was stupendous! This night crowned him king of the city, and Honious take Ranalee, Ivarl, and all their kind. They were the truly ignorant ones.

  There was only one truly frightening moment, when his body was twisted by whatever guided him and kept him clear of the tunnel walls and he abruptly flipped out of the main tunnel into one of the junctions. He drew a sharp breath, but his worry soon faded. If the city wanted him dead, he would have joined Akeem in Odin’s Sea a long time ago.

  Eventually, his wayward flight ended as the tunnel shifted back to horizontal. Edeard wound up sliding for a long way on his ass until the tunnel floor was completely horizontal again. He looked up and sent his farsight flowing through the bulk above. The top of the tunnel changed in that eerie and now thoroughly familiar way, and he fell up. Darkness engulfed him, and a minute later he popped up into the chill air and weak orange light of the Marble Canal Tunnel.

  The sight of it was immediately disheartening. Knowing he was going back up to the city streets brought his defeat into sharp focus. He couldn’t tell anyone, couldn’t turn to anyone. Worse, he didn’t really know what to do next.

  Maybe I should just leave
. Ride away to Ufford, and Salrana and I will live happily out in the country where we belong.

  It was so tempting. But if he didn’t take a stand against the gangs and the likes of Ranalee and her family, nothing would ever change. And ultimately the city’s decay would bring the countryside down with it. The problem would belong to his children, and by then it would be even greater.

  Edeard sighed and started his trek home.

  He spent the next day in his maisonette, longtalking Dinlay at the station, claiming he had a cold. Lian’s trial was in its eighth day, but he’d already appeared in the witness stand. The prosecution didn’t need him again. Dinlay wished him well.

  One of his ge-monkeys was dispatched to the nearest doctor’s house to fetch a soothing ointment, which he dabbed on his scorched skin. Then he apologized to Jessile and asked her not to come around for the evening, claiming he didn’t want to pass on his cold. She commiserated and got her family’s cook to send him a hamper loaded with chicken soup and other treats.

  What he wanted was to spend a couple of days resting, thinking about his next move; certainly he needed to talk to Grand Master Finitan. Then, at lunchtime on the second day, Kanseen longtalked him.

  The Cobara district had always delighted Edeard. It didn’t have streets like the rest of the city. Instead, over a hundred great pillar towers rose out of the ground, all a uniform four stories high, wide enough for each level to provide enough room for a family to live in. But it was above the towers where the architecture excelled. Each tower was the support column for a broad bridge spanning the gap to the next tower. Most towers provided the base for at least three such bridges, and many had more than that, webbing the district with an array of suspended polygonal structures. That was where the district’s true accommodation began, extending up to six stories high from the low curve of each bridge platform. They formed triangles, squares, pentagons, and hexagons, and right in the center of the district the bridges made up the famous Rafael’s Fountain dodecagon that housed the Artist, Botany, and Cartography guilds. The fountain itself roared up from a big pool in the middle of the dodecagon, its foaming white tip rising higher than the arching crystal roofs.

  Edeard walked past the fierce jet of water, his third hand sweeping away the stingingly cold spray that spattered around the edges of the pool. He was well wrapped up in his fur-lined cloak, with a black earflap hat pulled down over his hair and a maroon scarf covering his mouth. Nobody recognized him through his seclusion haze, though he was very conscious of the ge-eagle slipping through the dull gray sky that was keeping pace with him.

  After the fountain he took a left, heading toward the Millagal tower, with its red-and-blue-striped walls covered by a leafless network of gurkvine branches. Teams of ge-monkeys were out in force, clearing the last of the slush on the plaza, which extended across the whole district beneath the thick shadows of the elevated buildings. Winter gave Cobara a strangely subterranean aspect, with only sallow slivers of sunlight reaching down through the elaborate structures above. In summer, the plaza was full of people and small markets and street artists and kids playing games. Today, they were all huddled next to their stoves in the rooms overhead, complaining about spring’s late appearance.

  Edeard was glad there were few people about; his mood was still down. He arrived at the base of the Yolon tower and went through the wide archway. A massive set of stairs spiraled up the central light well. He grunted at the sight of them, each curving ledge spaced just wrong for human legs. One day, he reflected as he made his calfaching way upward, he would just throw caution away and reshape every Lady-damned staircase in the city.

  Three bridge cloisters radiated out from the top of the stairs. He took the Kimvula one and was immediately heartened by the bustling atmosphere so high above the ground. The cloister was narrow in relation to the height of the walls on either side, five stories of ogee arches and oriel windows. Nevertheless, it was wide enough for stalls to be set up along both sides. He unwrapped his scarf as he walked past them. It was warm inside the cloister, the winter sunlight shaded with a faint pink tinge by the crystal roof. People flocked around the various stalls, haggling with the owners. The air was scented with spices and very dry. Someone somewhere was roasting honeyplums.

  A third of the way down the cloister he turned into a narrow side corridor that led to yet another spiral stair. Sighing, he trudged up a further three stories. The hallway on this floor was illuminated by the city’s orange light radiating from the circles positioned above each doorway. He found the red door with its ivy hinges painted purple and knocked politely even though he could sense the minds behind the wall.

  Dybal opened it. The old musician wasn’t his usual self. He still wore a vibrantly colored shirt and his hair was immaculately braided, but the forceful good humor was subdued. “Thank you for coming,” he said. His eyes narrowed as he took in Edeard’s blotchy pink face. “Are you all right? You look like you’ve been burned.”

  “I’m okay. I had an accident, that’s all.”

  “Strange. That’ll be the second accident I’ve heard of this week; there was a fire in the House of Blue Petals two nights ago. You shouldn’t hang around that place, Edeard; it’s been the ruin of many a poor boy.”

  “I’ll remember, thanks.”

  Edeard was led into the parlor, which had a bulbous bay window looking out across the pentagonal space outside. Far below them, big nutpear trees grew in a series of troughs that curved out of the plaza floor. Their denuded branches shone bright white amid the shadows of the bridge buildings.

  The rest of his squad was already there. Boyd and Dinlay were standing close to a coal-burning iron stove, looking concerned and radiating worry. Kanseen was busying herself with a samovar of tea, her thoughts tightly shielded as always. Macsen knelt on the floor next to a chair where Bijulee was sitting, his arm on his mother’s legs. She’d obviously been crying. Now she was dabbing at her face with a handkerchief, wearing a brave smile.

  Edeard looked at the bruise that was darkening around her eye and winced. His dismay suddenly turned to anger. “Did you know them?” he blurted.

  She directed a fond smile at Edeard. Even with the bruise, she was still beautiful. “No. I told them not to call you. I don’t want you worried by this.”

  “Mother,” Macsen said. “It’s our fault this happened.”

  “No,” she insisted.

  “What did they do?” Edeard asked, almost afraid to know. He could see Macsen’s hands clenching into fists.

  “Nothing,” Bijulee said. She smiled up at Kanseen, who had brought her a cup of steaming tea. “Thank you. They were just some thugs.”

  “Four,” Macsen growled. “Four thugs.” He gave Edeard a significant look.

  “They told me that actions have consequences,” Bijulee said. “And that Macsen should watch out.” One hand caressed her son’s head. “They said you should find a different job. Then …” She indicated her eye. “I never saw it coming. Me! I used to think I was city-smart. Lady, how stupid of me.”

  “Bastards!” Macsen exclaimed.

  “Cowards,” Dinlay said.

  “We’ve always known that,” Kanseen said.

  “Do you remember what they looked like?” Edeard asked. “Can you gift us?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t,” Bijulee said. “It’s all a bit of a blur. Maybe tomorrow, when I’ve calmed down.”

  “Of course. I’m so sorry this happened. I don’t know what Ivarl thinks he can achieve. The trial is only going to last another couple of days. Lian and the others are going to get decades in Trampello. What does he think he’s going to get me to do by this?”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  Macsen’s jaw muscles clamped down. He continued to gaze up at his mother, full of concern and adoration.

  “Did anyone see anything?” Edeard asked Dybal.

  “No. It was the middle of the morning in the Bellis market. Hundreds of people were there, and nobody can remember
anything. They did what they always do and rushed to help afterward.”

  “I’m sorry,” Edeard said again. He felt so useless. “I’ll do everything I can to make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

  Dybal gave him a sad smile. “I know you will. You’re a good lad, Edeard, I appreciate that. I appreciate what you’re trying to achieve, too. People need hope, especially now. Shame there’s only one of you. This is a big city.”

  The squad got ready to leave. Edeard found Macsen’s blatant hostility quite disconcerting; his friend was normally the most levelheaded of them all. “Can I talk to you for a moment?” he asked Dybal.

  The musician ushered him into a small room that held over a dozen guitars as well as a drum set. A desk overflowed with sheet music. Normally Edeard would have been fascinated by the instruments; today he took a shaky breath. “I know this isn’t a terribly appropriate time.”

  Dybal took off his blue glasses and polished them with his sleeve. “I’ll help you any way I can, lad. You know that. You’re important. Not just because you’re Macsen’s friend.”

  “Thank you. Er …”

  “You’ll find there’s very little shocks me, if that’s any help.”

  “Okay. I just wondered if you knew anything about longtalk dominance.”

  Dybal raised an eyebrow. “The old lust slave serenade? You don’t want to be messing with that kind of mischief, Edeard, no matter how pretty she is. Trust me, there can be repercussions. Anyway, from what I’ve heard, every mother and daughter in the city is forming a disorderly queue to drag you off to bed.”

  “I don’t want to use it. I want to stop it from being used against me.”

  “Ah. I see. Some of those family daughters not taking no for an answer, eh?”

  “I wish it was that pleasant.”

  Dybal studied his face closely. “I’m sorry to hear that. First off, keep your mind tightly shielded. Which is a shame. You always seem a little more open than those of us born in the city; it helps make you so endearing.”