by Danie Ware
‘It’s not your hands, Talmar.’ Kolmarch’s voice was weary, cold. ‘Not entirely.’
Caph stopped. His father’s words had an old bitterness to that was familiar; he had a horrible feeling that he knew where this was going.
Kolmarch sighed. ‘I had hoped, on some level, that this more recent business with Ganthar would have… taught you a life lesson, I suppose. Hoped that you would finally grow out of this, find yourself a wife. Give us grandchildren, in the fullness of--’
‘Don’t you dare.’ Caph’s voice was almost a whisper.
‘But nothing seems to change. First there was all that trouble at the Academy. And then Ganthar. And then your hands, and then the endless, pointless conquests. And then Darrah, and now this dockworker – Aden? I was hoping you’d passed this.’ There was a deep sorrow to him, a plea that made the fury rise in Caph’s throat. ‘That you would grow out of it, and put the family first.’
‘It has nothing to do with the family—’
‘It’s all about the family. There’s no stable future for you – for us – this way.’ Kolmarch sounded regretful, as if he really needed to make his son understand. ‘You saw the size of the families Elect, and your sister consistently refuses every suitor. I’m seventy-six, Talmar, and I want grandchildren. I want the family name to go on.’
‘I like children. Not right now, but there’s no reason—’
‘I know it’s been tough for you,’ Kolmarch talked straight over the top of him, refusing to even hear it. ‘But this little rebellion of yours—’
‘Rebellion?’ The word was a gape of astonishment. ‘Is that what you think?’ He was incredulous; he couldn’t wrap his thoughts round it. ‘My Mother thinks I should stay with a man that breaks my fingers… because of his name. And you – you think Ganthar should have cured me?’ His voice cracked on the word; cracked to show the seething, molten rage beneath.
‘Not ‘cured’.’ Kolmarch frowned unhappily; he sounded like he meant it. ‘Just, made you realise what’s important. Made you stop playing these little games…’
But Caph wasn’t listening. ‘We’re done here.’ Utterly disgusted, he turned on his heel and walked out of his father’s study. ‘We’re so done.’ He didn’t even bother to slam the door behind him.
He heard his father call his name, the tone heartfelt, but he walked on, down the passage and away.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: CONFESSION
Nobody threw a party like Caphen Jularn.
To mark her family’s imminent Selection, Caph’s mother had chosen to celebrate – and to illustrate the wealth and strength of her house while she was at it. Caph remembered these displays from his youth: the evening would be ruthlessly organised and exquisitely tasteful, but the underlying message would be clear.
Frankly, he wished he could be somewhere else.
But instead, he stood in front of his long mirror, clad in yet another fabulously embroidered jacket, his waistcoat and shirt of the finest fabrics, his metal jewellery glinting with deliberate statement. His long fringe had been trimmed; his face was still swollen and tender. And Darrah had given him his hands back – they sat on the dressing table, watching him like crouching metal insects. His mother had asked him to wear them, but he still didn’t know whether he could.
The figure in the mirror looked back at him, as if awaiting his decision. This was the life you chose, it said, you heard the machine and you wanted this. Yet that figure – tall and broad-shouldered, his face refined, despite the damage, and his long fingers all broken – was a complete stranger.
That wasn’t ‘Caph’ anymore; that was Caphen Talmar, first son of the family Elect. And he looked the part all right, his gold yoke carried with considerable presence.
But he felt fake, hollow, hanging from his strings like some carnival grotesque. Tweak the cords and watch the performance, watch him ‘Sir’ and ‘Ma’am’ on demand. Watch him take a wife and produce obedient children – or dance attendance on some ‘decent gentleman’.
He sighed and leaned forwards, inspecting his half-healed lip.
A knock made him stand up straight. Darrah didn’t wait for the invitation; he opened the door and stood there, face and robes perfect, arms folded.
Caph looked at him in the mirror.
He said, ‘You’re needed, sir. The guests are starting to arrive.’
Caph nodded, then looked back at the absurdly handsome stranger in the jacket. ‘You know,’ he commented, straightening his collar. ‘I think I realised something, at the City Hall reception.’
‘Sir?’ Darrah gave the faintest flicker of an eyebrow.
‘Why you hate me so much.’
The eyebrow inched up further.
‘You think…’ Caph said, ‘…that you make a better son of Caphen than I do.’ He turned round. ‘That I’ve got… all of this,’ he gestured at his room, his garments, ‘…and that I don’t deserve it. And you do.’
Darrah held his gaze for a moment, his amber eyes calculating. He said, ‘Your intellect has never been in question, sir.’
Caph nodded, unoffended and understanding. ‘I suppose it hasn’t.’ He turned back to pick up the actuators, changed his mind and put them down again. ‘I didn’t mean to piss you off so much, Darrah – but I didn’t mean you to take it as a promise. If I could give this to you, I would.’
Darrah still held his gaze; he seemed almost puzzled.
He said, ‘Sir, I—’
But Caph held up a hand. ‘After this evening, I’ll speak to my father about formal adoption. I don’t know if it’ll happen – even if he agrees, the paperwork’s a bitch, and it’ll take months to clear – but this, it’s whole new start. If you do think I broke a promise, Darrah, then I’ll do my best to fulfil it. And I know how good you are at running the household. I think Caphen – the house, the family – needs you.’ He flexed his fingers, feeling the strain at the breaks.
Darrah stepped back, watching him. ‘Caph…’
Caph paused. It was the first time since the garden that Darrah had used his nickname. ‘I… Thank you.’
Caph nodded at him again, and went out to face the music.
Again, he told himself: you chose this.
The guests had filled the main room and spilled over into the garden, they were sparkling with jewellery and laughter and expensive wine, their clothing more elaborate than at City Hall, but the atmosphere more relaxed – almost gleeful. Around them, the house rose, long arches of stone and rising twists of elegant metal, steel and brass, all decorated with the coloured shine of the glasslights. This was house Caphen, once crafted by the Builders – it had his father’s wealth, but Jularn’s residence here had given it an edge of both beauty and command.
Caph saw Bec on the room’s far side, a cluster of gentlemen already around her. She caught his gaze and gave a faint, amused eyeroll. He winked at her, grinned. His mother held court on the long chaise in the room’s centre, and the people came to greet her, congratulate her, and offer her gifts – everything from knowledge to financial opportunity.
The Assessment was only the beginning, and much of the family’s coming influence would be secured here. He wondered how he could best avoid all of it.
At the room’s edge, Darrah stood like a robed carving. The party may have been Jularn’s concept, but Darrah was the machine that had made it happen, and its execution had been flawless; now, he watched a collection of the household staff as they circulated from the kitchen with trays of wine and spirits, goblets and tumblers and all of Caphen’s best glassware. Every so often, he would raise an eyebrow or a flick a gesture, and a staff member would move to pass the wine to where it would do the most good – sometimes to an empty hand, sometimes to diffuse a conversation, or to shift the dynamic in a social group. Caph confessed it: he was lost in this, and Darrah’s ability to both conduct and navigate it was like his father’s,
both impressive and incomprehensible.
Darrah: he was another understanding come way too late. Caph wondered how he’d never comprehended it before.
The thought made him look for Kolmarch – perhaps he should raise the question of adoption tonight, while the old sod was on a roll – and it took him moment to realise that his father was missing. Curious, Caph prised himself away from the security of the fire mantel, and took a careful circuit of both room and garden.
But the old man was conspicuous by his absence.
Caph wondered if his parents had had words, wondered if those words had been about Ganthar…
Because Ganthar, likewise, was not here.
Dion Molnek was here, still in the gold frogging and epaulettes of her dress uniform – Caph moved on before she noticed him. At last, defeated, he found himself at the edge of the main garden, the breeze cool, the blue moon close and now almost full.
It was absurdly beautiful, and it offered him a moment of peace.
He walked out to the garden’s edge, enjoying the wind.
Down there, the city’s outskirt glittered with a thousand lights; the wide water shone like pure blue glass. The rock of the crater seemed very far away, as tall as the city and taller, its ancient, jagged edges like ramparts against the stars.
Why had no-one ever climbed it?
Looked Outside?
Behind him, the party glittered as if it offered a timeless, unnecessary answer – the taboo was too long-held. The city gazed inwards; it had everything it needed. Caph took one more look, out over the drop, then rallied himself to go inside and play the game.
But a soft voice beside him said, ‘Hey.’
The word was like a caress, a touch completely unexpected. Caph spun on his bootheel, his pulse thundering counterpoint to the family’s scatter of musical entertainment.
Aden stood there, right there in the moonlight, just like he’d done at the harbour.
‘Ad?’ The word was pure disbelief.
The man stood in shadow; his hair tied back, his ink concealed by long sleeves – the distinct blue sleeves of a messenger’s livery. The garments looked surprisingly convincing.
Stunned, Caph stared at him. ‘You can’t be up here.’
‘I know.’ His voice was quiet. ‘But I need to talk to you.’
Caph glanced behind him, took Aden’s elbow and moved them both out of line of sight. ‘You need to leave.’
He gave a faint, ironic smile, an infinitesimal shrug. ‘At least hear me out before you throw me out?’
Caph’s breath was lost, his heart pounding; he was sternly reminding himself that this man had walked away from him twice. ‘What’s with the livery?’
‘I had to get through the gate.’ The comment was humorous, but he swiftly sobered again. ‘Caph, this is serious. And a bit crazy. I…’ he spread his hands, the gesture oddly intense, ‘…I need your help.’
A burst of laughter made Caph glance behind him again; paranoid, he gestured at a gazebo, much of covered by one of the weeping trees. Aden nodded, and they stepped out of the moonlight.
As they reached cover, Caph said, ‘All right, what is it? Make this quick.’
Aden paused, as if wondering where to start, then took a breath, and said, ‘Dion. Molnek. Ganthar.’ He said it like he was jumping into the deepest part of the water, but he held Caph’s gaze as he did so, unrepentant. ‘Broke your fingers, didn’t he?’
Caph bristled. ‘Have you been following me?’
‘No, of course not.’ The words were dismissive, as if he’d missed the point. ‘We were at the same party. At the Torquar. In Kier.’ Aden was still watching Caph’s expression, searching his face for the response.
It took Caph a second to catch up, then came the rush of understanding, the inevitable stab of humiliation. He moved forwards, closer still, though there was no-one to hear him. He said, his whisper accusatory, ‘I didn’t see you there.’
‘You did,’ Aden told him, with that same, faint smile. ‘But you were there – you saw, you heard, everything they did and said.’
Caph was staring at him now. They were close, too close in the garden’s heat, in the moon-shadows of the overhanging tree. Caph could almost feel him breathing, and he made an effort to control the memories that went with the sound. Parts of his body, apparently, weren’t listening.
Aden said, ‘Why were you there?’
‘That’s none of your bloody business—’
‘Did they invite you—?’
‘Kicking you off the end of the garden is looking better every minute.’ Caph was angry now, defensive and reactionary; he reached for words to throw. ‘You left me to sleep, at the harbour. You—’
‘Caph, this is critical.’ He was tense; again, his attitude seemed to imply that Caph was being childish, missing the point. ‘I need to know everything you know about Dion Ganthar. And the rest of them. I need to know what they’re planning, down there. And I need to know what they can do.’
Caph said, confrontational and quite deliberate, ‘Why?’
Aden paused, as if considering his answer, then said, ‘They took my sister.’
What? The baldness of it startled him to incredulity. He could hear his pulse; feel the age of the stone in the garden under his feet. The metal leaves of the tree stirred like it was breathing. It all made Aden’s closeness far too much.
The music stopped and a burst of applause came from the garden…
Normality.
It seemed like another place entirely.
Stupidly, he said, ‘They can’t have. They’re just…’ His voice dropped to a whisper as he tried to assimilate it. ‘They’re just people.’
‘They took her from her family and her home,’ Aden said, ‘And she’s down there, under there, somewhere. I went looking for her; I didn’t know you’d be there. And then there was Anatar, on the stage… and then Ganthar…’ He looked like was going to say something else, shook his head. ‘He…’ He stopped. ‘I saw what happened.’
Caph dropped his gaze, but the flare of anger felt good, gave him focus. Ruthlessly, he came back to the point. ‘Look, Ganthar’s a lot of things, but he’s not a bloody kidnapper—’
‘They took Lyss. They tortured her, possibly to death.’ Aden took that last half-pace forwards, was so close in the darkness that Caph could feel how warm he was. ‘And I need to know exactly what the hells they’re up to. Please, Caph. I’m going back down there, and before I do, you need to tell me everything you can.’
Caph found himself dumbfounded, struggling with a colossal shift in perception. Ganthar had been his lover for two years – he’d been difficult, controlling, possessive, all of that was without question. But what Aden was suggesting… he just couldn’t make it fit. He thought about what Anatar had said, about Ganthar going mad. He said, ‘That’s insane.’
‘Trust me,’ Aden said. ‘You don’t know the half of it.’
‘Bloody hells.’ Blowing out a sigh, Caph stepped back, sat down on one of the cold metal benches that lined the gazebo’s inside. He found himself shivering, and pulled his jacket tighter. ‘All right, I suppose I can tell you the basics,’ he said. ‘Ganthar’s the first son of house Dion. He was a senior ranking greycoat until he did two years for breaking my fingers. They let him out about ten days ago.’ He shrugged. ‘What else do you need to know? For all his flaws, he’s a straight-ahead thinker – there’s not a devious bone in his body. He’s a thug, not a—’
‘If he’s involved with Cloudglass, then he’s betraying his family.’ Aden said. ‘What about the others? Anatar? Raife? What do you know about them?’
‘Anatar, I’ve no idea, I’ve never seen her before. Raife’s a metallurgist and a good one; he was at the Academy with my mother. He was Thantar; his family threw him out, for some reason. He…’ Caph paused, frowning, flexing his fingers.<
br />
Aden watched his hands, finished it for him, ‘I need to know what he can do.’
Caph’s frown deepened. He said, ‘I don’t know. The… snake, whatever it was. It creeped my bloody skin. Even the Builders couldn’t make—’
‘This is exactly what I mean,’ Aden said. He was fidgeting now, and it was making Caph nervous. ‘Caph, you saw that stage show. They’ve got some huge powerbase down there and they’ve bought the loyalty of some of most powerful city merchants.’ He held out a tiny, drawstring bag for Caph to take. ‘All the people you saw at that party, they’re not only worshipping giant metal snakes, they belong to Raife. He’s bought them with… What?’
Caph had pried open the bag, and was staring at him. The moonlight had faded and the leaves sighed again, almost as if they could feel the lightning shock of understanding, the dark blaze horror that had come with it.
‘Bloody hells,’ Caph said. A chill had climbed his spine and he found himself back on his feet. ‘Raife gave me this, not much, only a little. It made me hear… made me hear music.’ The words were sharp, painful; he forged on, ‘This isn’t a stimulant, it’s an alloy.’
‘What?’ Aden blinked and then said, very carefully, ‘What does it do?’
Caph shook his head. ‘Raife was making a point, not…’ He left the implication dangling.
‘Caph,’ Aden said. ‘Raife’s used pivotal contacts to get some of the city’s most powerful merchants to support his cause.’ He was intent now, holding Caph’s gaze. ‘And now you tell me it’s a metal? You’re the hellsdamned expert. What does it do?’
For a moment, Caph had no idea what he meant. Then the understanding hit him like the cumulative equations of rolling dice. He heard Raife, in the little room by the theatre; he could see again the lights in the floor of City Hall, hear his mother, the whisper of her understanding somehow a part of the voice of the city entire…
