Children of Artifice

by Danie Ware

  The words were painful; they made him sound like an old man. And the plea in them hurt.

  But Proteus had a final play of his own, a piece that showed that he, too, could gamble – could source the information, weigh the odds, and win. He affected a conjurer’s gesture and produced the final piece of from his scavenged treasure. It was metal, with four sides, each one carrying a different symbol – silver, copper, iron, zinc.

  His souvenir from the previous evening.

  His mentor’s sudden grin was filthy and reed-stained, with a definite edge of malevolence. ‘Taken from Caphen?’

  Proteus grinned. ‘Metallurgists and academics, and owners of all we survey.’ A jerk of his chin indicated the harbour. ‘We’re not the only ones with insights, Aus.’

  Suddenly chuckling like some lined and spidery fiend, Austen held his hand out for it, weighed it in his palm.

  Proteus said, ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘You don’t miss a trick, do you?’ Austen’s other hand shook him by one ear, a gesture he’d used since Proteus had been a sulky teen. ‘You must’ve had a great teacher.’

  ‘Asshole.’ The word was a grin, a familial affection that was one of the few emotions he allowed himself, and something he’d never show outside these walls. Austen had been there for him from when he was a small boy, lost and overwhelmed, swept along by the moods of the city and by its many tumbling faces, since he’d been found, hopeless and faceless and nameless, with a tiny and terrified girl wrapped in his arms.

  Austen had named her too, and raised them both as his own. He loved them, in his own slightly scruffy and feckless way. They were an odd family, but they could still pull together when they needed to.

  ‘Tell your sister to stop messing about and get over here,’ Austen said. ‘If the hells are going to come screaming out of the rock, then I need both of you home.’

  CHAPTER THREE: AGAIN

  It was evening before Caph could face going home.

  The sun had sunk past the rim of the crater, and the air was heavy and still. Ahead of him, the long curve of steps seemed endless, one side rising slowly against the wall, the other offering an intricate, arched balustrade and glimpses of the city below.

  Caph was worn out. He’d had little sleep, and he knew he’d have no patience with his family’s bloody judgements, not tonight. He wanted to get inside, lock himself in his rooms, and not come out until the morning.

  Maybe not come out at all.

  Molly was free, for hells’ sakes – he’d been dreading this moment for the last two years. Caph was afraid, and angry, and sweat tickled his shoulders as he climbed.

  This time, it won’t be just your fingers…

  Stop it.

  He tried to think about something else – about the oriels and pillars that he passed, about the walkways and the boulevards and the gates to every level. About the Hospital, the University, the Theatre, the homes of the lesser named families. About the insane iron grotesques that the Builders had once conjured, their crystal eyes glittering and their tentacles like roots, anchoring them in the rock. The great spiral of the upper city was impossible, beautiful, the love of the Builders crafted into every symbol and shape. Yet tonight, even the gargoyles could not distract him – Ganthar’s release was too much, too overwhelming, and all he could see were the memories – the years of their relationship, and that final, furious explosion of jealousy, the moment the pressure had burst.

  Wryly, he stretched his twisted fingers and felt them pull and click. Seemed Molly’s need for attention and control just hadn’t bloody changed.

  He snorted, and kept climbing.

  When he reached the level of his own home, the duty greycoat nodded at him. ‘Caphen.’

  The gate was closed, and Caph had no tag – but that didn’t matter, he was named family and he was home. Even more than the stone archway, though, the man’s use of his title marked the boundary, the point of no return…

  Stop it!

  He ducked through the side-gate, nodded at the greycoat and told himself to get over it. Maybe, if he was lucky, he’d not see Ganthar again – there had to be fifty thousand people living in the city.

  And maybe, if he was really lucky, he’d get back in the house before anyone saw him.

  His luck, however, had stayed at the wharf. House Caphen gleamed with lights; they pooled on the lawns and they glittered in the living metal trees. And as he came close, the front door opened and an arc of brilliance streamed down the path.

  Framed in perfect silhouette, the household manager, Darrah, was waiting for him.

  ‘Good evening, sir.’ The words were chill, flawless. Despite his youth, Darrah was the best house manager the family had ever had, ruthlessly organised and as efficient as a squad of greycoats. ‘Your mother wishes to see you.’

  Stomping up the steps, Caph glared at him, at the gold tag that glinted at his throat. ‘Can’t she wait ‘til tomorrow? I feel like shit.’

  The manager’s amber gaze lingered on Caph’s hair and crumpled clothing, on the seeping cut across his cheek. ‘She’s requested your presence for tea, sir.’

  ‘And there’ll be tea in the morning.’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ His tone was almost smug. ‘Please, follow me.’ He turned, his long robe rustling.

  Stifling the sigh, Caph did as he was asked.

  The corridor was warm and dark, decorated with brass and with the rich hangings of the Rhentaka markets. Darrah walked as though he owned it, stray strands fallen from his topknot and fluttering at the back of his neck. He had a grace to him that Caph had once found captivating – and that had ended in a deliciously drunken half-hour at the close of a household party.

  Caph mother had rapped him severely over the knuckles – Darrah was the youngest son of a Caphen-affiliated family, and far too important to be casually rolled in the grass. And Darrah himself had seemed to take it as a broken promise – as if Caph had made him some unspoken offer, and then failed him. Further efforts at communication had been met with that same, cold politeness.

  The manager stopped at a decorated door, and knocked. The soft light above him made his flawless features shine.

  And a contralto voice said, ‘Come in.’

  Caph remembered.

  The final performance of his University years, his zanyar across his lap, bow and strings singing under his fingers. He was just twenty-one, in the foregarden of City Hall itself, playing solo for an audience of the city’s highest families – not just the six families Elect, but all eighteen named houses, his own among them. And the zanyar was alive with his touch, a swelling, multi-voiced cry to the open garden. It offered a passion and wonder that took him far from doubt and fear, far even from the people that watched him, stunned. He was sweating, long fringe in his eyes, seasilk shirt sticking to his skin. And the music played through him, with him, it turned him into something more – it cried for him, lived in him. And as it rose to its final crescendo, the garden rang with it; the stone of City Hall was humming to the skill of his playing. When he finished the piece and stood up, shaking, the audience waited for one thunderstruck moment, then stood with him, cheering, their applause tumultuous.

  He’d been introduced to Ganthar at the same event.

  Bastard.

  Caph had been the finest musician of his generation, For two years, he’d revelled in his skill and in the adulation it had brought him – he’d played with an ache and a fury that had left his listeners speechless and prickled with gooseflesh. The families had thrown flowers to him, muttered among themselves; their younger sons and daughters had eyed him with twinkling brightness. He’d had the best of their attention, the city at his feet, parties in his honour…

  The zanyar lived on, untouched. It was a hand-crafted instrument, made for his reach and span – it even had a name. And now it hung on the wall of his father’s study, ta
inted with dust and regret. As much as his hands, it represented the thing he’d lost – the years he’d played for the city, the success that had made his family proud…

  And had caused such jealousy in his partner.

  Dion Mol Ganthar hadn’t just beaten him. Molly had destroyed his career, and he’d done it deliberately. And somehow, Caph had never quite managed to pick himself back up.

  ‘Oh darling.’ Now, that long disappointment was rich in his mother’s tone. ‘Look at the state of you. What have you been doing?’

  Caphen Kol Jularn was tall, and reed-slender. Her hair was long and fine and grey, her layered robe embroidered with real silver. Her beauty was exceptional, given luminescence by her age. And Jularn had authority – she was a woman who knew herself exactly, and who carried no fear. She was also one of the most powerful metallurgists in the city.

  In her presence, Caph was a boy again, all gawky angles, inadequate and self-conscious. He said nothing, and resisted the urge to look at his feet.

  Beside Jularn’s metallurgical table, seated with her long legs outstretched, there was a second figure, younger and more strongly built. Like Caph, she was dressed in jacket, waistcoat, long boots. Bectar, his sister and his elder by almost a decade, caught his eye and winked.

  Despite the gesture, her presence worried him – it made this feel like a trial.

  Darrah moved to pour the tea, but Jularn waved him away, the metals at her wrists glinting.

  ‘Do something about his face, Darrah, will you? And do find him better clothing. He can’t come in here looking like that.’

  ‘Ma’am.’ Darrah sketched a half-bow, and slipped out.

  Jularn picked up the teapot, swirled it gently, poured steaming tea into three black glass bowls.

  Over them, she considered her son, her lips compressed to a line.

  Caph dropped his gaze to the table-top, to the pattern of metallurgical equations all marked in brass inlay. What he had toyed with, with the dice at the wharfside, she had here drawn in its full glory.

  The secrets of the city’s ancient powers.

  Over them, Jularn passed him his tea. He took it, waited.

  ‘Oh, Talmar,’ she said at last. She passed a tea bowl to his sister with strong, ringed fingers. ‘Look at you. Drinking, fighting, gambling – and every time, you come home looking like you’ve fought a war.’ Her tone was laden with regret, as if it was her fault he’d turned out like this. ‘Really, this is just too much.’

  He still said nothing, sniffed the tea. It smelled like jasmine. After a moment, he managed, his voice low, ‘I don’t want to have this conversation again—’

  She stopped him with a raised hand. ‘’Again’?’ Her tone was sad, but hardening now, readying itself. ‘It’s perpetual motion, Talmar, it never reaches an end because you storm out, again, you slam the doors, again. You come home hungover, stinking of smokereeds and worse, again. I dread to even think where you’ve spent the night, or with whom. Frankly, I feel the company you keep is… questionable.’ The word was delicate, like a silk kerchief at a bad smell. ‘You’re going to find yourself in an alley, one night, with a blade against your throat. You’ll lose your purse or your house keys, and end up face-down in the water. And I don’t wish to find my home raided and my possessions taken for illegal trade and who knows what else. Thinking about your behaviour, frankly, makes me shudder.’

  Caph said, ‘They’ve released Molly.’

  The name fell like a stone, lay on the rug as if the room would fold up round it.

  Molly.

  Out of their mother’s eyeline, his sister’s expression was alarmed. Molly? She mouthed questions, but he couldn’t understand them. Jularn searched his face, her eyes flicking to the cut. A frown passed like a shadow.

  ‘Ah,’ she said, softly. A flash of sadness, a touch of something both genuine and gentle – just for moment, she faltered. ‘And are you two… talking?’

  Acidly, Caph said, ‘Conversation really not his strong point.’

  His tone of voice earned him an arched eyebrow in reprimand. He subsided. His hands were shaking and he put down the tea.

  ‘A shame,’ she said. ‘I’d always hoped that you would work out your differences. There was a time he would have done anything for you—’

  ‘He had a bloody funny way of showing it!’ Caph was really angry now, on the verge of a full loss of temper, of slamming his way out of the room and away. Again. ‘You—’

  ‘That’s enough.’ Jularn used her professional voice, the tones she saved for her conjuring. ‘I will not have you using language or raising your voice in my presence.’

  ‘Right,’ Caph said. ‘Because that’s what matters.’

  Bec was gesturing, telling him to stop, to calm down.

  Jularn said, ‘And that, Talmar, is exactly the problem. Your lack of respect for this house is the only thing that matters… which rather neatly brings me to the point.’ Another sip of tea, like she’d rehearsed this several times. She took a breath, said, ‘I’ve spoken to Bectar,’ she glanced sideways, ‘and to your father, and the family has reached an agreement.’

  Oh no…

  He stared at her, his heart suddenly sinking. Behind him, Darrah had come back into the room and Jularn waved a hand, her metal bracelets jingling. She directed him to Caph’s side.

  Caph said, ‘What do you mean?’

  Jularn said, ‘We’ve been more than patient. For the last two years, we’ve kept you, clothed you, fed you, put a roof over your head. Tolerated your outbursts, and financed your… excursions.’ The word was twisted with distaste. ‘I really have tried to give you time, Talmar, to let you find your feet and a new career, and something… else… to fill your life. But you’ve done nothing, made no attempt to better yourself. And after last night, I’ve had enough.’

  He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The room seemed to tighten, breathless, at his throat.

  Jularn continued, ‘You need to show some discipline and some respect, take proper responsibility. You are the first – the only – son of this household, and you’re going to start acting like it.’ She sipped her tea. ‘With all of your education, to be lounging around at the wharfside is just unacceptable. And, as you have not yet found work for yourself, I have taken the liberty of finding some for you.’ She gave him a look that was pure chill. ‘And I want you to try and play again.’

  ‘What?’ He shivered with reaction, shrinking away from her physically, pulling his hands behind his back. Play again. ‘You know I can’t do that.’ Even the thought of it made him panic; bite back on a scrabble of refusal, a mouthful of rationalisations as to why it was impossible, impossible. He looked to Bec for help, but his line of sight was blocked as Darrah carefully took his jaw in thumb and forefinger. The manager’s slim fingers were cold. If he noted the bruise across Caph’s throat, he said nothing. He turned Caph’s chin to the light, and looked carefully at the cut.

  Jularn was still talking. ‘I do understand your loss.’ The words were gentle. ‘And I’m prepared to go back to the physicians, if that’s what it takes. But.’ The word was final.

  ‘’But’?’ Caph turned to look at her, horrified, but Darrah moved his chin back to the light.

  ‘Stay still,’ he said.

  Memories of the man’s body blurred with those of Aden, of the freedom of the wharfside now lost. He bit back a stream of savagery.

  ‘You’ve hidden behind your hands for far too long, Talmar, they’ve become your excuse for everything,’ Jularn said. ‘From tomorrow, you’ll return to the exercises that the physician gave you, and to regular practicing – though there will no performances, please, until you reach a respectable standard. And until that happens…’ and she fixed him with a stern glare, ‘…you’ll be assisting my research. You’ve always had a flair for it, and I have a project that needs your help.’


  Warm cloth stroked the cut on his cheek. Despite himself, he winced.

  ‘And lastly,’ Jularn said. ‘After last night, all unapproved excursions are hereby curtailed. You’re to stay in the house until you can behave in a decent fashion. I will not have you dragging our name though the whorehouses and gambling dens of the wharf. If you do need to go anywhere, you will leave with your sister, or with Darrah. Do I make myself clear?’

  He stared at her, disbelieving. The panic closed tighter about his throat – there was no way everything could change like this. Will you come back this way? Would you be here if I did?

  ‘You can’t just--!’

  ‘I can not. Have my son. Behaving the way you do. Looking like you do. Keeping the company you do.’ Each phrase was clearly enunciated, as if she needed to make sure he understood. ‘I have responsibilities, Talmar, not only in my research, but in finding ways to utilise my skills for the benefits of the city entire.’ She tapped the table-top, drawing his attention to the tree of equations, the symbol of her work. ‘I have a professional standing to uphold, one that you undermine with your every misdemeanour. How do you think water pours from the apex of the city?’ She tapped the water-symbol, ‘gal’. ‘How do you think people heat their homes, light their lamps? Our ore is smelted at the mines?’ The heat symbol, ‘fu’. ‘And your behaviour reflects on me, on my skills, and on the family. You, Talmar, with everything you could have been, to waste your days lounging and drinking and whoring and who knows what else…’ There was a tremble of rage in her voice, a note of fury that was more about her failure than his. ‘You behave like some boat boy.’