by Danie Ware
But it didn’t stop there.
The lights flashed, and he saw Lyss; saw the odd, crystal ring from her box of letters. He saw the light dancing fragmented, like a handful of metal filings thrown wide across her floor.
Tiny spangles, each one an insight.
And then the rush really came and everything else was lost.
In her rooms, Lyss was crouched on the floor. Flickerings of leaf-shadow passed across her pretty, round face, her shining waterfall of pitch-black hair. She was writing, a letter. The words flowed out of her like ecstasy, all falling over themselves in her need to be heard, accepted.
Loved.
Time flew faster, and the leaf-light flickered again. The leaves browned and fell, torn from their places.
And Lyss was at a party, buzzing with heady elation, her ringed hand upon a cut-crystal glass of wine. Her other hand held a bronze metal insect. She turned her wrist and arm admiringly as it scuttled over her skin and she laughed with wonder at its miracle. She looked up and she met Proteus’s gaze. She started to say something…
…and then her eyes and mouth widened into a shriek that never sounded, a cry that opened her jaw to an impossible angle. She strove to speak, but her face was starting to tear, to rip open at the corners. The insect ran over her, and cuts were appearing in her skin, and she was screaming and she was fading in the light, her image fainter and fainter as if she were a ghost, dissolving in the time-glass realisation of morning…
Lyss!
In slow-motion, Proteus watched as Lyss’s ring fell through her non-existent finger, tumbled over and over, then hit the floor and spun round on its rim. Fragmented white light hit the wall and exploded into a thousand colours, whirling like the blades of a wharfside juggler.
Lyss… What did they--?
But she had gone.
There was no light. The air was cold.
I miss you, Lyssy…
The memory sliced a clean line between reality and fantasy – he had been on the floor of her house, with those letters in his hand. Snarling, he shook himself; he found himself staggering backwards, physically and mentally, tearing the images down and throwing them away…
Anatar’s voice reached him, a caress that made him shiver. ‘Trust us,’ she said softly, her tone like molasses, like dark silk and mulled wine. ‘This is the Torquar Theatre, we are Cloudglass, and we bring hope. City Hall’s lies cannot fool us, we see all. We are here to help you, to free you, to heal you. To bring you change, to grant your every wish and dream. You have time to think, to reflect on what we offer. But we know some of you have come already seeking our help.’ As he focused, he saw her look at Caph, smile. ‘You have come to us, and Raife will guide you. He will give you everything you need.’
The stage lights went out.
The plunge of darkness was like being doused in ice-water. Proteus stood still, his mind reeling, trying to untangle himself from all of it and spinning round a crystal image of pure fear…
He had no idea what had just happened to him.
Was that what Austen had meant by the ‘Eyes of the Stone’?
That… thing… that had just taken his mind clean out of his body?
He made an effort to steady himself. He put his hands to his face – just checking – and remembered his detachment.
Five breaths in, five breaths out…
Clear your mind.
Think.
Proteus had thought that Cloudglass was the name of the stimulant – but this was something organised, and strong. This wasn’t about some new narcotic, loose on the streets of the city; this was some kind of conspiracy.
What the hells had he just found?
He realised that he was still running his hands over his face – reassuring himself that Khavas was still intact. Thankful it was still dark, he dropped them back to his sides, made an effort to recall his stance and character.
He should probably get back to Austen, but he was fascinated in spite of himself. As the lights in the room came slowly back up, he glanced at Caph, standing staring at the box in his hands. Carefully, the man laid it on the table by the pillar. By his movements, he, too, was utterly shaken.
What was he doing here?
The woman with the cane knew him – did Caph know what this all was?
The thought dangled like temptation, an excuse to go closer, but Proteus dismissed it. He needed to get to Anatar, to the big man on the balcony; he needed to get a good look at that metal snake. He needed to understand what the hells they’d just done, how they’d played him like that, if they’d played everybody. How much of him had been visible. And he needed to understand if Lyss had been here, why they’d wanted her, how the Cloudglass drug fitted into the puzzle…
He breathed again, slowly, letting his thoughts cool and steady. One thing at a time, one answer, one understanding.
Five breath in, five breaths out.
A movement caught his eye.
As if conjured by some off-stage prompt, the big man from the balcony was moving. He was in his early thirties, perhaps, brutally handsome, a head taller than the crowd around him, taller even than Caph. His thumbs were hooked casually in his trouser pockets, and he walked with a confident saunter that parted the people like a wave. Somehow, even in full family dress, he looked like a pirate.
House Dion, by his colours – this man was family Elect, a member of the City Hall Assembly and easily the highest-ranking person in the room. And he didn’t fit – why in hells would a member of a ruling house be a part of the revolution?
Still breathing steadily, Proteus kept watching.
As the man came close, Caph lifted his chin. He said, his voice tight, ‘Ganthar.’
Proteus watched.
The man’s attention was fixed on Caph, his dark eyes flaring with heat. ‘Glad you came, Tal.’
‘Really.’ Caph’s tone was scornful, and his apprehension audible.
‘City’s changing. Everything. And soon.’ Ganthar’s smile was one-sided, confident and wicked. He was standing too close to Caph, looming over him like a wall. ‘You never got the family life, any more than I did. All that posturing. You belong here.’
‘You’re funny as ever.’ Caph snapped it at him, not backing away. ‘Going to give me another scar? For the collection?’
Ganthar’s grin broadened like he was drawing a blade. He raised a hand, ran one thumb, very gently, over the skull-mask’s cheek. ‘I like it,’ he said, grinning. ‘Elegant.’
With a sharp gesture of his forearm, Caph knocked the hand away. He stepped forwards, jabbed a broken index finger into Ganthar’s chest. ‘You don’t scare me. I’ve seen what my family can do. And I don’t know what petty threats you’re making, what game all this is, but I’m done playing. Certainly with you.’
‘You’re done playing everything, from what I hear.’ Ganthar took his hand, raised it to his lips and kissed the knuckles like a courtier. ‘Your music’s gone, Tal, you’re a liability, useless. Your family don’t want you and you— Shit!’
With a gesture as shattering it was unexpected, Caph had slammed his wineglass clean into the side of the big man’s face. For an instant, everything was stillness, spinning shards and drops of burgundy and scarlet.
Then the shock rippled through the crowd. People backed up, shouting, there were screams. Proteus caught the woman with the cane – Anatar – heading swiftly their way from the side of the stage.
Ganthar spat blood, one cheek now a mask of red. He had a myriad cuts, cheekbone and upper lip, one in his eyebrow that bled profusely.
Caph said, determinedly unrepentant, ‘Don’t you comment on my family, you lumbering goon. Don’t you dare.’
Ganthar nodded at him, grinning. ‘You’ve grown some balls, I see.’ He sounded amused; his own blood streaked his teeth. ‘Good for you.’
Caph snar
led at him, ‘Get out of my face—’
The first punch took him clean off his feet and crashed him two feet backwards, skidding across the floor. People leapt out of the way, shrieking. He crunched, shoulders first, into one of the pillars, spilling the table and scattering glasses. They shattered, shards and wine and light everywhere. Ganthar didn’t care; he went straight after Caph, picking him up by the front of his jacket, the gesture easy, one-handed. With a casual strength that left Proteus gaping, he backhanded Caph hard enough to snap his head sideways and send him reeling, crashing to the floor again. The glasslights wavered.
The man’s face was sheeted in blood, now, in absolute vehemence.
‘I told you,’ he said. ‘At the wharf. This time, it won’t just be your fingers.’
Proteus stood still; he was trembling, his nails biting into his palms. Anatar would be on them in a moment.
But Caph, unbelievably, was back on his feet. His mask had gone and his face was white with fury.
‘You’re insane.’ The words were distorted; by the sound, his teeth were cracked or broken. ‘By every hell and spirit, this time, I’ll make sure they’ll never let you out.’
But Ganthar just laughed at him. ‘They can’t touch me, I told you. This is Cloudglass, no more family, no more rules, no more games. Did you come down here for miracles, Tal? Think Raife would just… fix you? Conjure you magic new hands and you could play again?’ His grin was like a shark’s. ‘Be the golden boy? Play the birds out the sky? Maybe he will. But first, you’ll have to be nice to me.’
He took Caph’s jaw in one hand, and kissed him, full on the mouth.
And something in Proteus snapped.
As Caph shoved the man off him, spitting blood and fury, Proteus was already moving. Still in Khavas’s face, he reacted without thinking, without hesitation. All his confusion surged forwards; his fear for his sister, every hot memory that still lingered from the wharfside, and from the harbour. Every spin of recollection that this place that just given him, his own rage at its unwelcome invasion…
He made no threats, gave no warning. He slammed the heel of one hand upwards into Ganthar’s nose, crunching the cartilage with the force of the blow, and knocking him clean over.
Proteus had fought for his life in the backstreets of Ivar – fought from when he was eight and ten years old. No swaggering bully was a match—
Ganthar rocked on his heels.
He didn’t go down.
For an instant, it was hard to know who was more surprised.
But recoveries were quick.
Pumped now, coldly focused and furious, Proteus followed the strike with a second, hammering him backwards, this one to the side of the man’s head – to the place where the largest of the glass-splinters still stuck from his skin.
It didn’t even connect.
Ganthar was not some petty thug. His style was formal, militaristic, and he was fast, far faster than Proteus had expected. He blocked the strike, his other hand slamming back with a force that sent Proteus reeling, pain clanging through his skull. His vision blurred; he shook his head to clear it. But Ganthar was relentless, and he didn’t waste time with threats. A third strike, and a fourth, both to Proteus’s jaw. Proteus blocked both, but he might as well have put his forearm in the way of a flying steel bar – they hit him anyway.
Hard.
He bit his tongue and his mouth filled with the metal tang of blood.
He was aware that Caph was shouting, raw and edged.
But Ganthar moved like a machine, another strike, and another, a glitter to his dark eyes that was vivid, tightly controlled fury. His face was a mask of violence…
A man with a face like pure violence.
A metal spirit.
Something in him went absolutely cold.
The two things crossed, overlapped – Ebi’s humorous fortune-telling, the visions he’d just seen. And it hit him like another fist: a certainty beyond anything he’d ever known – Lyss had been here, and now he knew it for sure.
By every hell.
A chill rage filled him, an ice-cold fury that he’d that not felt since childhood, since Austen had first taught him to control his emotions, and his flesh. But there was no controlling this, this was a pure-white promise: this man was going to die.
Right here.
‘Gan-thar!’ With a furious bellow, Caph took two steps and hurled himself forwards. He slammed one shoulder into Ganthar’s stomach, locked both arms round his waist. They went over together in a furious, sliding tangle.
But it was too late.
The rage in Proteus was too much, still rising. He couldn’t control it; it was heating, melting, catching fire, even as he tried. It didn’t stop, wouldn’t be withheld; the fury in his head and heart was too strong. He was dimly aware of Ganthar, bouncing back up and turning to Caph, of Caph, arms over his head to shield himself from the inevitable kick; dimly aware of Anatar, reaching the scene and snapping at Ganthar to stop, her cane still in her hand. But more than anything, he felt it as it happened – he felt his emotions rage, felt his face lose traction, felt his skin slide like it was burning through from the inside, felt his muscles shudder as though his control had finally gone and he’d caught fire from his own fury.
‘Shit!’ His hands went to his cheeks; he couldn’t help the exclamation.
Anatar surged forwards. And he heard the word that came out of her mouth – the word that was every answer, and every question…
‘Proteus.’
The room smashed, spinning outwards like glass…
She knew who he was.
How the hells did she know who he was?
Leaving Caph, leaving Lyss, leaving all of it, he stumbled back into the crowd, and fled.
CHAPTER ELEVEN: FEAR
He ran.
He had to; he had no choice. He was overmatched and – now – prepared to admit it. And he was still awash with the imagery, the memories of the stone, or whatever the hells it had been. He shoved his way through the shocked blur of people, heading for the archway and the alleys back to Kier.
But the big man – Ganthar – was right behind him, and he was heavy, and fast. He pounded the floor like the thunder of incoming storm-waves, merciless and unrelenting. People stumbled back from both of them, gathering their friends and families and wineglasses…
Proteus had no idea what his face even looked like, was trying to feel his skin as he ran – the thought flickered briefly that if he managed well enough, he could lose himself back in the crowd – but he had no change of garments, and no time to think. He shoved the young Enshar and her house manager out of his path and reached the arch…
The doorman blocked his way.
He didn’t care. A fist to his temple and the thug reeled backwards, hitting the wall outside and sliding to the floor like he was broken. He gave a faint, final sigh that might have been regret.
For reasons he didn’t need to analyse, it made Proteus feel better.
But Ganthar was still behind him, chasing him down, uncaring of the confused and milling people and yanking the more foolish or stupid clean out of the way. As Proteus went through the archway and out into the streets, there was barely twenty feet between them.
And there was nowhere out here he could hide. He wasn’t some glamorised assassin who could vanish in the shadows; without a crowd to sink into, he was all too visible.
With no other option, he kept running, turning tight corners one after another. His shadow ran along the wall-sides; his feet echoed from the stone.
‘I see you.’ Ganthar was through the arch, his voice distorted by his broken nose. ‘I see you, Proteus. We know exactly who you are, she told us. She told us everything. In the end.’
Lyss!
Anger flared, fear; he didn’t want them, they got in the way. He made mistakes. Striving for clarit
y, he began to change, to shift his face, his hair. The silver rings fell behind him in a trail, tinkling with absurd and musical merriment.
But he wasn’t going back for them. Still running, he shed the waistcoat, wished he’d had the hellsdamned foresight to leave himself a cache. As he skidded round one corner, and then another, he realised he was getting lost – he began to concentrate on the air currents, on trying to find a way back out to the night streets of district Kier.
A figure slumped by the wall, bottle still in hand. Not waiting to see if it was alive or dead, he grabbed the overflowing bag at its feet, rummaging though it as he ran on. A bundle of tarras squeaked and fled in a filthy scuffle of fur.
‘We’ve been waiting for you, Proteus. Waiting for you to come for her.’ He was leaving the heavier Ganthar behind, but the man’s laughter was deep; it rolled from the walls like rocks. ‘Do you want to know what she told us, about what you can do? Do you want to know why we need both of you?’
The taunt bit at him, but he didn’t pause. It some ways, it only made it easier: he would take this man down, but not here, not now. It would be at a time and place where he could win.
There – a long slope, running upwards towards the main streets. A rain gutter ran down one side, choked with silt. Trying to deepen his breathing, he went up the incline with one hand on his face, feeling the skin as it settled back into place. His instincts kicked; his bruises shifted and faded, the pain receding. He was younger now, paler and fitter, his shirt unbuttoned down the front – he was rapidly crafting one of the street-side youths that caroused, carefree and bare-chested, in the still heat of the caldera evening.
But as he hit street level, he turned, just for a moment. Below him, too far back to catch him now, Ganthar had reached the bottom of the slope. A tumble of streetlight caught him, lit his face to blood and cruelty, his teeth to a startlingly predatory smile. They stared at each other, ghosts in the shadows between them. Lyss, Caph.
