by Danie Ware
Proteus.
In losing his face, he’d given himself away – lost his secrecy.
Why we need both of you.
Lyss must have told them everything – who he was, what he could do. Which meant that the spider must have been left in her rooms for him, to track or locate him, or to pick up his patterns…
He turned back to the road, and was gone.
Ganthar’s voice came after him. ‘She can always find you,’ he said, ‘You know she can.’
But it made him believe that his sister was still alive.
This face had no name, no depth, no history. It had been flung on like a street performer’s make-up, so much paint and panic. It had advantages – his bruises had gone, and the pain had faded almost to nothing – but it was shallow, an emotional reaction almost like those of his childhood, and it had no work or investment behind it. Wearing it as best he could, Proteus stood in the very back of a sweatily packed bar, a glass of spirits on the bar-top in front of him, this one more medication than prop.
He paid for a smokereed, lit it, and tried to think.
He’d tracked Lyss – but to what, he had no idea. He was recognised, compromised, and out of luck. He’d had his mind blown open by a seething metal snake, his ass handed to him by a high family thug. He had a headful of questions that he had no rational way to unravel. And he had no idea whether he’d just stumbled on some scheme to unbalance the Selection, or to challenge City Hall…
Why did they need Lyss? Need him?
And why had Caph been there? Why would any member of a high family be permitted audience to an insurrection?
What had Ganthar said? ‘Think Raife would just… fix you? Conjure you magic new hands and you could play again?’
A commotion sounded at the door and he had to force himself not to look round with anything other than the required sudden startlement. He knew they’d come after him, and he sat still, watching the Torquar’s goons as they barged into the room. The best thing he could do was, as ever, be just like everybody else.
At the front of the bar, people backed up, shouting. He showed surprise, looked round at his companions for answers, blew smoke. There was a brief scuffle as the barman confronted the intruders – shouted questions, demands – and then it died away, and they were gone.
As the bar settled back down, though, his hunger for information was growing, all tight and sharp and curious; he needed to understand. Not only about Lyss and himself, but about Ganthar. And Anatar. And this ‘Raife’. What Cloudglass were, what they actually planned…
Somehow, this all fitted together. He needed to get back to Austen – never had he wanted the old man’s guidance so much.
But another thought occurred to him: Lyss knew where Austen lived. And if she’d told Cloudglass everything, then Austen, too, may be compromised…
Proteus.
Lyss must have told them absolutely everything.
Confounded, he blew smoke at the ceiling.
He had blown it, well and truly – he’d disregarded Austen’s advice to stay quiet, and he’d made a right bloody mess. And now he was out of his mind, of his depth, out of his district, and out of ideas.
Irritated, he downed the spirit and shoved the glass across the bar. Without speaking, the barman poured him another.
He wanted to speak to Caph, but was wary of his own desire. Proteus was a man with no past, no present. Sex was one thing, enjoyable, useful, and soon forgotten, but Caph… Caph had broken though those barriers, and Proteus’s need to see him was not entirely professional.
No, there was only one place he could go, whether Austen was compromised or not.
And that was home.
*
As his adrenaline faded, Caph realised that he hurt.
He was leaning on a pillar, breathing hard, his face smarting where the skull-mask had impacted the blows across his cheekbone. The mask itself lay on the floor, split down one side. Its empty sockets stared back up at him.
It looked just like its skin had twisted, shifted like nightmare…
He kicked it away.
It must’ve been his imagination, or a trick of the glasslights. He shook his head and then winced – his lip was split and his mouth was swollen. And at least one of his teeth was cracked; he could find the sharp edge with his tongue.
Bloody hells.
He was battered and bruised and filthy, his jacket destroyed. Both his forearms hurt where he’d blocked the kick, and he’d lost the box with his bloody hands in it…
Typical. He was going to have to go home like this.
Again.
He exhaled as if he were deflating, then stood upright to look round at the emptying room.
The lights had faded, leaving pools of shadow like water across the floor. There were scattered glasses, wine-stains; someone had lost a shoe. The last of the guests were at the door, now, and the party was definitely over.
Party, indeed. The thought brought anger – that familiar rush of helpless, furious outrage. And it wasn’t even with Ganthar, it was with himself. For not being strong enough to face him down, for being a hellsdamned victim.
He drained the closest wine glass, smacked it down, picked up another. The thought of going home like this – of facing his father’s anger, his mother’s disappointment – was just too much.
The wine was bitter, and too warm.
‘Caphen.’
The use of his title made him turn, scowling.
The woman from the stage had stopped to speak to him, cane planted in front of her. She carried herself like a performer, elegant and tall; a pair of ubiquitous heavies stood at her shoulders.
But he’d had enough, and he didn’t care. ‘What?’ He folded his arms and glowered.
She flicked the cane at one of the goons. ‘Fetch Caphen more wine.’
‘Don’t bother, I’m not staying.’ The words hurt as he said them; his jaw and teeth moved all wrong. Ignoring it, he went to step past her, but she held out the cane to block his path.
Holding him there, she spoke to the other goon. ‘And you, round up the rest of your team and go after Ganthar. Go through every inch of Kier, every bar, every party. Stand by every gate. I want that man found!’
‘Ma’am.’ The goon turned, gathering her troops.
‘I said, ‘I’m leaving’.’ Caph went to shove through the cane, but he wasn’t as together as he thought he was. His knees were shaking, and he stopped. It was all too strange: the man’s shifting, impossible face, the loss of his hands and his hope. And Molly…
You’ll have to be nice to me.
Anatar said, ‘How do you know him, Caphen?’
Caph blinked. ‘How do I know who?’
She planted the came on the ground, said, ‘He came to your defence. Why?’ The words were edged in necessity.
‘Defence?’ It took him a moment to catch up. ‘The man with the – the face?’ The query was unexpected; Caph had no bloody idea. ‘How the bloody hells would I know?’
‘You know him from somewhere.’ Anatar rapped the cane like a demand. ‘Where?’
He bared his teeth. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘He blew his cover for you, Caphen. You may not realise it, but you know who he is.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ The anger flared again. ‘I came down here to see Raife, that’s all. He knows my mother. And if I’d known about your resident thug, I wouldn’t have bothered.’
Anatar stared at him, calculating. The goon had returned with a bottle of wine.
Caph refused the wine, offered her a cynical eyebrow. He said, ‘I’m going home. And you can tell Ganthar he’ll never see the daylight again.’ The words twisted. ‘And that’s a promise.’
But the goon’s other hand landed on his shoulder, the grip tight.
Anatar smiled.
‘Consider yourself our guest,’ she said. ‘Lonthar, here, will find you somewhere quiet where you can… think. Maybe it will help you remember. And do take the wine. It’s from Vanchar, I understand, and it’s very good.’
‘You can’t keep me here.’ The words were disbelieving. He went to shake the goon off, but the grip was vice-tight. ‘Oh, this has to be some kind of joke. My family won’t stand for this and you know it.’
She leaned in. ‘Why did he help you, Caphen?’
‘I’ve never seen him before.’
‘Why did he help you?’
‘Maybe he just doesn’t like assholes.’
‘Answer me.’
‘Why do you need to know?’ Long years against his father enabled him to throw it back at her, to stare her down. ‘Why don’t you tell me who he is, as you seem to know so much.’
‘Don’t you goad me, boy,’ she told him.
‘What are you going to do?’ Caph shot back. ‘Torture me?’
She laughed, the sound rich and deep. ‘Your naiveté’s outrageously charming,’ she said, ‘But I’ll do nothing so crass.’ The goon’s hand was still on his shoulder. Anatar ran her fingers through his fringe, the gesture disturbingly intimate. ‘You’re so pretty,’ she said. ‘And Ganthar loves you so very much.’ Her smile was perfect, elegant and beautiful. ‘He’s missed you, you know. He’s spent two years scrubbing the stonework and thinking only about you, Caphen Talmar.’ She tangled his hair around her fingertips, long nails gleaming. ‘What you had done to him, and when he would see you again.’ Her hand slipped down to the scar on his cheek. ‘That sort of obsession… can do things to a man’s mind.’
Shuddering, he tried, again, to pull free.
Again, the goon yanked him back.
Anatar turned away from him, gestured for the goon to take him away. As though it were an afterthought, she turned back over her shoulder and said, ‘Why don’t you have a little think, hmm? While you wait for him to get back? I’m sure your memory will come up with something.’
*
Dawn filtered, red and uneasy, through a thick, grey sky.
Sunk below the rim of the crater and obscuring the heights of the city, the cloud was low and angry; it seemed to smother Ivar’s very rooftops.
Beneath it, the streets were sweating and empty, workers scurrying to the harbour with their eyes down, fearing the storm to come. Light glowed in alcoves little tiny havens; rubbish danced in whirls. Kei’s anger was rising, and it seemed to seethe in the hot, thick wind.
Holding down his tension, Proteus turned off the tight, stone roadway and took the steps two at a time. He came up to the cluttered porch panting, sheened in a dirty sweat. It stank up here – of piss and breakfast, of life and humanity. Layers of noise drifted from the tangle below – a crying child, a blazing row, the grunts of married sex.
Glancing all around him like a fugitive, he knocked on the door. ‘Austen.’
The wood rattled in the frame. No-one answered.
After a moment, he banged harder. ‘Austen!’
A count of five, nothing. Dismissing fear, he pulled the spare key from his pocket and let himself in--
The room was empty.
For the first time in over a decade, Austen was not at home.
Proteus stopped.
The window was unshuttered and open; he could hear the creaks and rumbles of the harbour. A rise of shouts reminded him of Vowen, but this was Ivar and Caphen-owned, and it was unlikely there’d be greycoats out here. A hot exhalation fluttered discarded paperwork.
‘Austen?’
He remembered scuttling insects, the gleam of brass. Treading cautiously, he shut the door and yanked back the curtain to the water room. Nothing. Echoes of nightmares flickered like dread and it took him an effort to stifle them.
In the centre of the room, he stopped, slowly turning all the way round and watching the mess for movement, for the glitter of moving metal. He realised he was holding his hands to his face as if he’d lost his faith in it; as if his skin would crumble like dried clay, scatter into nothing on the floor. The understanding made him afraid.
He’d had his mind taken from him.
He’d lost control, and in public.
Proteus.
Maybe they’d already been here, and Austen had gone…
No, they hadn’t had time.
He turned further, looking for answers, for a message. The battered old chair glowered at him, familiar and filthy. Around it, memories chased each other like children: images of Lyss, dancing, her step light as a feather, of himself, sitting cross-legged, three stones in front of him. Tell me who they are, Austen had said, paternal hand on his shoulder. Their names, their histories, their personalities. Are they angry, peaceful, confused? Why?
Proteus had trained all his life, and it hadn’t mattered, hadn’t been enough. But Lyss was down there, somewhere, and he had to get to her.
Had to trust in his own control.
Irritated now, he started looking properly. If Austen had gone out of his own volition, there would be a message here somewhere.
He began with the chair itself, empty spirits bottles, brass urns for offerings now all choked with reeds, tea bowls with tannin caked thick in the bottom. There were old glasslights, cracked and broken, ripans of every denomination. And spreading out from the chair’s centre like some widening dark stain – discarded clothing, items of jewellery, household oddments, a lone glint that looked like a scroll-case, decorated silver and as old as the city itself. It was Austen’s marriage certificate, the tiniest echo of the old man’s distant youth.
But no message. Not one item in the heap was any real use.
He rummaged further, grimacing.
And then, he found something familiar.
And he felt like bloody kicking himself.
*
The goon marched Caph to a small room behind the stage.
It had been a storeroom, perhaps; it was tiny, and laden with boxes. It smelled of dust and had no access other than the door. And when that was closed on him, it was absolutely pitch bloody dark.
He spent a moment gawping – surely this couldn’t be real? – before realising that the door was being bolted from the outside.
Clunk.
They were absolutely dead bloody serious about leaving him here.
He surged forwards, propelled by the shock – he was Caphen, by the hells, they couldn’t do this to him. His father would be down here, demanding explanations. He began banging, shouting. He had no hellsdamned clue who that man had been, all right? This was ridiculous; he’d never seen him before. And what had happened to his face anyway, how was that even possible?
The door rattled, and stayed closed.
Furious, Caph searched his pockets for matches, found nothing. He felt the boxes on the floor, sure he would find a handy something left here by the theatre crew – but he had no way to pry their lids off with just his stupid, broken fingers. He clawed at them for a moment, then stood up and kicked at them, raging.
Shit!
Then, defeated, he sank back on the pile and tried to think – there had to be a way out of this.
But the dread grew slowly cold, and the darkness closed in on him, its silence singing. Anatar’s threats loomed large and they brought a very personal fear…
You’ll have to be nice to me.
He remembered the row, the rage, the beating; remembered Ganthar hammering him backwards across the room, blow after blow that he had no hope of stopping. He remembered falling, and the weight of his man on his back. He remembered struggling furiously, a faceful of matting, one arm twisted right up to his shoulder – at the time, he’d been genuinely afraid that Ganthar would rape him. But no, the row had been about his music, and it was his music that had to be stopped. Ganthar had snapped his fingers, one after the other, and
he’d sung a child’s rhyme as he’d done so, mocking Caph with every one. Caph hadn’t wanted to scream, hadn’t wanted to give the bastard the bloody satisfaction – he’d lasted three fingers before he hadn’t been able to help it.
Two years, they’d been together. Two years.
What the hells had he been thinking?
He still loves you.
Panic brought him back to his feet.
But a further round of banging just left him with splinters.
At last, he sank back on his box. He wondered if his father would come for him, or if the old sod would just leave him here to teach him some sort of lesson…
Another memory: a City Hall party, all soft music and false humour, and all of it for him, shining right at its centre. Colonel Dion Molnek, tall and severe, her military dress uniform flawless. ‘A truly stunning performance, Caphen. Tell me, have you met my son?’
Molly had been dashing, wicked, absurdly handsome. Slimmer of shoulder then, more able to grin – and equally unimpressed with the stuffed-shirt ostentation of the Elect. He’d felt like a kindred spirit, like someone real in middle of all this glittering, flowing fakery.
Someone who’d understood.
They’d wound up in the refectory with a cheekily acquired bottle of spirits, then, later, in the empty barracks, splashed across Ganthar’s single, officer’s bed. There had been no cruelty to him, then, just heat and passion and strength. It had been good, at first.
The memory twisted. Caph held it out and let it burn.
Bitterly, he wondered how long he’d last.
But the dark was silent, and it offered him no answer.
CHAPTER TWELVE: RAIFE
Proteus knew what it was as his hand closed around it. He knew by the hard, broken edge, by that same feeling of slipping and the now-familiar sensation of wanting to recoil.
As he pulled it free, Austen’s strange, broken coin caught the grey gleam of the storm-light.
He considered it, looking at the odd-shaped hole in its centre, then flipping it across his knuckles like a marketplace performer and letting it come to rest in his palm. He knew what it was now, of course he did – knew exactly where it had come from. He still couldn’t translate the symbols, but they no longer mattered – what mattered was where he’d seen this metal, this reddish rust…
