by Danie Ware
Tock… Tock…
Caph made a swipe for the obstinately thumping metronome. The room was suddenly silent. He said, ‘What? She is all right?’
‘She’s fine.’ Bec picked up his bedside timeglass, put it back. ‘But she still doesn’t know what happened. She can’t explain it.’
He stared, not following her.
Bec sighed. ‘Who sabotaged the mines, I mean.’ Her face was etched in tension. ‘The wharfinger swears that no-one had gone down there.’
Caph shook his head, ‘Mum said it had staff—’
‘A small number, and trusted. He can vouch for all of them personally.’
Caph stared. The setting sun was glorious, its glow red through the windows. ‘Are there other ways in?’
Bec’s expression was grim. ‘Not on foot. Illuar’s gone back to the harbour; he’s trying to unravel it now.’
‘I don’t get it.’
‘Me either.’ She came to sit on the side of his bed; it creaked as she sat down. ‘Maybe you’ll get your wish, Tal, and there’ll be no Selection. You can keep your dodgy dockworker lover and hang out at the wharf for ever.’ Her tone was wry, and she smiled at him.
He frowned at the zanyar. Images of Aden tumbled, heat and smokelight, the sunlight of the harbour; images of a world oblivious to responsibility, a wistful lingering freedom. But the truth of the mines had stayed with him.
After a moment, he said, ‘I want to live up to my name.’ He looked up, met her storm-grey gaze, so like his own. ‘I want to understand all of this. And I want to know what goes on in City Hall. How they see everything, how they really keep control…’
I want to play again.
Bec nodded at him. ‘You’re Caphen to your fingertips, Tal. I’ve always known, and I think Mum has, on some level.’ She gripped his shoulder, her hand strong. ‘Be proud of yourself, little brother. I am.’
She said nothing more, just got to her feet and left the room.
And Caph picked up his bow as if the zanyar had offered him an answer.
PART TWO: CLOUDGLASS
CHAPTER TEN: CLOUDGLASS
Kier.
The sun had sunk past the rim of the crater and rising, angled shadows clawed at the bruise-coloured sky. Beneath them, the streets were darkening now, sprawled out in the day’s last heat; a scatter of people lingered, but Proteus paid them no heed. They passed him by unseeing, a casual brush of scent and laughter.
Kier was a district of laziness and wealth, of wide pavements and evening bars, and he was back in Khavas’s face, complete with scar. His black hair was neatly tied back and decorated with patterned rings of silver. He’d chosen the shirt and waistcoat to identify as a comfortable merchant – well-made, but nothing too ostentatious – and the guise had taken him easily through the streets. From here, though, he had less idea as to what to expect.
He was chasing a phantom, a hunch. And he could only give his face and clothing his best guess.
After Jay and the harbour, Proteus had returned to Austen in Ivar. He’d hoped that the old man had uncovered some clarifying truth about the spider, or what it had seen, but Austen’s agoraphobia had been in full yammer and his mood more cantankerous than usual. Instead of bothering him, Proteus had rounded up a couple of the smarter streetkids, and sent them into Kier to find the old theatre. Teka, certainly, was adept at getting through the gates without being stopped.
After that, he’d gone home, and slept. He’d been woken at mid-morning by Teka throwing stones at his window – the building was definitely in use, she’d said, and it had something big coming up. Bottles of wine had been delivered that morning, look, she had one here.
Proteus had relieved her of the wine, but had paid her a full ripan for her trouble. Then he’d returned to his mirror and his costumes and his tea, and he’d considered what to do next.
The tea had brought the memory of Ebi’s fortune telling – something about a metal spirit and a man with a face of pure violence… he’d chuckled as he’d drained the bowl.
He’d spent the day adjusting Khavas’s clothing, going through his sewing box for the right braid and trim. The activity was calming; it cleared his mind, and settled him.
And later, as dusk as had come, he’d donned the character like a set of fine garments, made sure he had face and voice intact. Then he’d headed into the district, following Teka’s sharp wits. An idle evening walk through the paved and patterned streets, and then down to find its theatre…
And he’d wondered just what would be waiting for him.
When the scatter of people had gone, seeking wine and merriment, Proteus checked the road both ways. He was tracking Teka’s steps exactly; he ducked under the bridge and found the waiting stairwell, a stone spiral that twisted downwards into the district’s abandoned heart. The steps were dipped, worn smooth; they made his heart jump and his boots skid.
And at their end, a web-work of roadways led outwards into nothing.
But Teka’s instincts had been good – as Proteus followed the maze, listening, watching, there came a tease of sound. It tempted him like the gateway to the hells themselves…
Music.
Down here, echoing through roofless walls and empty rooms, through smugglers’ routes and old pirates’ hideouts, there was music.
It seemed his hunch had been right after all.
Tense now, edged with excitement and very conscious of his face and clothing, he followed.
The sound became louder: a ripple of strings, a bass drumming that echoed in the walls. He turned a corner, another. The roadway widened, was joined by a second. There was light, laughter, the rustle of conversation.
Proteus paused, waited. A tall, robed gentleman emerged from another road and crossed the open space. The man was richly dressed, and he wore a decorous, russet mask – a stylised, city tashwyn.
Glancing at his own decorated waistcoat, Proteus winced. If that was the theatre’s standard, then he was significantly underdressed – but there was nothing he could do about it now. His training would just have to be enough.
Assuming an attitude of confidence, he followed. The man’s shadow flickered along the wall.
And then, another turn and there it was: an open archway flanked by glasslights, and an old name carved in the stone. The Torquar Theatre. There was no hoarding to offer the name of the show within; instead, a hefty silhouette lounged against the wall-side.
Proteus pulled back, out of the man’s line of sight, and made a quiet show of checking his purses and pouches. As two more people approached, a man and a woman, both of them masked, he stood upright and smiled, attached himself to them as they turned the corner. The three of them came to the door together, and he gave the heavy figure a polite nod and a flash of copper.
Confidence was the trick. He was here because he was meant to be, a guest, invited. Despite the error in his clothing, he had friends, and the authority of a man who belonged.
The doorman looked the three of them up and down, stopped the man in the lead. With a short, impatient sigh, the man extended his wrist. The woman with him waited, ostentatiously tapping her foot.
And Proteus walked straight past, his pace even, his heart thumping. Whatever they were doing down here, their security was good.
Good… but he was better.
On the door’s far side, he found a sudden wash of heat, a rise of glitter and banter, a tumult of flickering darkness and sparkling lights and glorious, faceless costume. Many of the revellers bore masks, eyes glittering from their sockets. And there were a lot of people here, perhaps a couple of hundred. The number made him pause.
This was not what he’d expected. Was he in the right place, or had Teka got it wrong? What the hells had he just stumbled into?
But he was here now, and Lyss could be close – he wasn’t leaving without an answer. He allowed the crowd’s press
to welcome him, hot and familiar; let himself feel and absorb its society, its community, its flush of hope and expectation. Mask or no, he was Khavas and he understood this; he was just the same as everyone else. He moved effortlessly – but he was looking for answers, for faces he knew, for those in power, for Galeas’s drug, for skittering spiders, for Sahar, for Lyss herself…
The room stretched into a long curve of vaulted stone. At odds with the older decoration, metallic struts lined the longer wall, and glasslights gleamed in myriad colours. Opposite, at the curve’s inside, there stood the stage, a tall screen at its back. The lights played on it with a sense of rising eagerness.
He wondered what it concealed. This whole thing was more people – and more show – than he’d anticipated. He remembered Austen’s warning and wondered if he was out of his depth, then dismissed the doubt. Sahar had been a performer, and if Lyss was here, or had been, he needed to know.
Needed to find her.
The crowd shifted, people greeting friends. They were wealthy, their rank betrayed by garments and voices and body language. There were senior guild members, artisan masters, ladies and gentlemen of glittering leisure or accomplished corruption. Here was Veklash, guildmaster and runner of boats through the wharfside; here was Kajan, one-time courtesan, now retired to run his business in the heart of district Berchane. There was a scatter of family colours, though less then Proteus might have expected. Enshar Val Taneth, youngest daughter of her father’s house, and beside her, grinning with very prominent eyeteeth, her family’s household manager. By their familiarity, he was a little more than just her escort.
But gossip was not what he’d come for. He acquired a wine glass – prop, rather than drink – and slipped on through the people. He nodded at some, greeted others, remembered names. He stopped to speak to another Kier merchant, a key-smith with many locks to his credit and an old contact of Austen’s. The easy conversation was another layer of belonging.
And then, as he rounded the curve and saw the far end of the room, he found what he was looking for.
There.
That was where the power was: a balcony, metal and fabulously wrought. At its leading edge, polished boots on a level with Proteus’s head, stood a strong, sleekly muscled man. He had a casual authority; he was big, fit, and he wore his high family finery like a soldier, like a man who had no use for it. He bore no mask; his dark hair and beard were neatly trimmed, greying as they met his ears.
Beside him, one elegant hand on the silver head of a walking cane, was a tall, raw-boned woman. She was perhaps forty; she had skin like polished wood, hair like a multi-coloured waterfall. There was a huge, crystal ring upon her little finger, splitting the light into shards.
Proteus paused to speak to the woman by him; let the flowing cluster of people offer concealment. His pulse was starting to tighten now; his instincts kicking in. Those two, up there – if this really was ‘Cloudglass’, then they had the answers.
He waited. He discussed fishing quotas with a small and fussy-looking lady, shaking his head at the strict rules imposed by City Hall. And he watched the balcony from the corner of one eye, gathering what he could, calculating his approach. He saw the woman suddenly stand more upright and snap something at the man. She gestured with the end of her cane.
Fishing-quota woman left for more wine. Making sure the gesture was covered by the shifting crowd, Proteus looked round. Austen’s warning forgotten, he was looking for anything he could use as introduction, as information, or as leverage.
But there, unmistakable despite the mask he wore, stood Caphen Talmar.
Caph?
The heat and light and music all stopped dead, leaving him flung out by velocity, shattering slow and soundless as he hit the wall. The rush of memory robbed him of heartbeat, of speech. He was motionless in shock and adrenaline, staring in disbelief.
Caph?
With an effort, he regained control; he stopped himself from stepping back. Instead, he swiftly scanned the rich garments, the elaborate skull that covered most of Caph’s face, the flat steel box he held in one hand. He had an odd tension to his shoulders and stance, but he stood to his full height like an act of defiance.
His authority was unconscious, but, by the hells, he looked good—
Proteus drowned the thought in a gulp of wine, and considered his options. The man and woman on the balcony obviously knew who Caph was, and he may well be the device that Proteus needed… he could go over there, speak to Caph as Khavas, find out what this was. But the memories were too recent – he’d walked away from this man for a reason. And he couldn’t afford a mistake, not in here.
A chime from the stage saved him from the decision. The illumination in the room faded, and a whisper ran through the crowd.
Caph turned, the box gripped like a talisman.
A sudden lightshow flared on the long metal uprights – sparks of bright magnesium that made the people beneath them gasp.
This all felt like the peak of something… like something dressed to impress.
Expectation rustled. Footlights sparked and flared like fireworks – strontium and sodium, red and yellow. Glasslights rose in the wings, a scatter of colour. And then, walking out onto the stage’s centre came the woman from the balcony, her cane clicking in the silence, her hair glorious and impossible. She had a compelling presence, almost inhumanly mesmeric, and now she wore a jacket to put Caph’s to shame, a flare of mothwings in a spectacular pattern.
As she spread her arms, the room gasped.
‘Welcome,’ she said, her voice rich and bold. ‘Welcome, my friends, to Cloudglass!’
Well, Proteus thought, that was blunt enough – he was definitely in the right place. The woman gestured and the fireworks jumped again, copper and blue, higher this time, as if they leapt for her command.
‘I know many of you are new to us tonight, ‘ she said. ‘My name is Anatar, I’m a lifelong merchant of Kier, and I belong to no guild, no house. I owe my loyalty to no named family. I belong only to the Cloudglass dream. To the Torquar Theatre that we’ve made our home. To the future that we build here. A future we secure for our friends, our sponsors and supporters. A future in which our visions of freedom come true.’
Caph was staring at her. The line of his shoulders was tense, but his expression was impossible to make out beneath the skull. Proteus quelled a dangerous urge to reach out to him, a palm-itching desire to touch.
‘You know your history, your legends,’ Anatar said. ‘You know the tale of Artifice, the renegade, the Builder. Our protector and defender. She was a woman who fought for her servants’ lives, and who brought the city new knowledge. A woman who helped us cut and build the stone, design the wide roads of Kier, the tall towers of Thale.’ Proteus could have sworn that Anatar was looking straight at him. ‘A few of you have been with us before and know the story, but for the rest of you...’ She paused, and the crowd held its breath. ‘Artifice,’ the word was a hiss, ‘Defied her fellow Builders, her own husband, to bring her servants knowledge, and independence.’ She came to the front of the stage and crouched to give a loud, conspiratorial whisper. ‘Yet still, we’re denied our true freedom.’
He saw Caph tense.
‘You know your history, my friends,’ Anatar said. She stood upright and walked the stage like a storyteller, gesturing so her jacket flared. ‘Know your tales of wonder. How Artifice gave us knowledge, resources, wealth. So, I ask you…’ and she spun to face them ‘…why are we still controlled? Why are we ever interrogated, gate to gate to gate? Why are we tagged, like animals, questioned like children, denied our liberty of movement, our full potential?’ She spread her hands in query, asking the audience. ‘There is no threat of famine, no lack of resources. So why are we, the city’s true providers, the merchants and artisans who bring prosperity, why are we still restricted, still controlled by the high families and the Assembly at City Hall?
Do we not deserve better?’
The crowd was rapt, silent. They watched her in utter fascination. Her charisma seemed more than human, utterly compelling; her jacket and hair glimmered in the stage lights and the colours in her ring flashed. She stepped back, spreading her arms and calling to them, summoning their awe. The copper tag on her wrist glinted, making the point.
‘Witness, my people!’ Her voice rose over the crowd, completely in control; the tag flashed like a lure ‘Witness the very restriction that holds us back! The symbol of our slavery, of the power that the high families keep for themselves! You are here because you understand – we will no longer be controlled! We will walk free!
She gestured, and the screen behind her was pulled away, revealing…
Proteus stared.
It took up the entire back of the stage, horrific and mesmerising: a twisting spiral strip, a coiled, rusting, rasping metal spirit like Vei herself, a dirty ouroboros that rippled like something living. And it was huge, three meters and more in height – it towered over the stage, its eyes as pure and bright as glass. It looked almost as though it writhed to music that no-one else could hear…
Living stone and breathing metal.
A creep of unease crystallised across Proteus’s skin – he felt like the sculpture itself was growing out of the stone floor, somehow, night by night, hour by hour…
He could almost hear it, slithering in the stone, a resonance in the bones behind his ears...
Almost feel it looking, straight at him.
But that wasn’t all.
His focus was gone, snapped out like a light. He had an irrational, overwhelming compulsion to bare his soul, to tell it everything, to fall to his knees and let his words overspill themselves in an outpouring of honesty, to release himself in a catharsis like he’d ever known. If he’d had a face, a real face, a real name, a real voice, he would have shown it, given it everything. He saw every lie he’d ever told, every person he’d ever deceived. Every life he’d ever taken. He saw his sister, saw Caph’s innocence and trust; he saw his own history. He saw every last brutal detail, all stripped of its glamour and white as bone.
