Smoke and Stone

by Michael R. Fletcher

  What are the odds she works alone? No, she must have friends, co-conspirators. Grabbing one Grower girl won’t solve this, whatever this is.

  Akachi needed to understand. Could one girl be the entire reason he was here? Maybe she’s a street sorcerer. A thrill of excitement ran through him. Finally, a chance to test his skills against this almost mythological enemy. He’d read about street sorcerers, raw but untrained talents, and he’d heard plenty of stories, but that’s all they were.

  And if she didn’t come to church?

  Then we’ll do this the hard way: I’ll stalk her in her dreams.

  If he did this, if he cleaned up the Wheat District, perhaps even routed out the Loa heretics, his path to the inner rings would surely be shortened.

  “Akachi?” asked Captain Yejide. “Is something wrong?”

  He blinked, surprised. How long have I been standing here, daydreaming? “Sorry.”

  Hard-Eyes stood guard, watching the street and passing Growers. Everyone gave them a wide berth.

  “What’s Hard-Eyes’ name?” he asked, nodding in her direction.

  “Hard-Eyes,” said the Captain. “We just call her Hard-Eyes.”

  “Really?”

  “No. She’s Khadija.” Captain Yejide never lost her deadpan expression, never cracked the faintest hint of a smile.

  “We have to get back to the church.”

  The Captain nodded, uttered a low whistle, and the other Hummingbirds changed facing. They headed back to the church with Khadija taking the lead.

  Akachi talked as they walked. “Captain, I need to find a girl.”

  A moment of silence, then, “A girl?”

  “A Grower girl.”

  “I see.”

  Does she look disappointed? “I’m hoping she’ll come to tomorrow’s sermon.”

  Yejide gave him a long look. “Are we taking her politely?”

  “Politely?”

  “Or do we grab her when she enters the church?”

  “Neither,” said Akachi. He caught a flash of confusion on the Captain’s features. “I want you to follow her. I need to know where she lives.”

  “Ah.” She looked away.

  Ah? “I need to know who she is working with.” Does she think I’m picking a Grower girl from the crowd for personal reasons? He’d heard of priests taking Growers for servants or sexual partners. It was frowned upon, but largely ignored. “This isn’t… I’m not… She might be dangerous.”

  That caught Yejide’s attention. “Street sorcerer?”

  “Maybe. I believe she has ties with the Loa.”

  The Captain considered this. “I’ll have Talimba follow her. He’s been trained to fit in with the Dirts. He knows their slang, how they walk and talk.” She grunted. “And he’s the sneakiest bastard I’ve ever met. If Southern Hummingbird hadn’t claimed him as a child, he’d be a dangerous Finger.”

  Cloud Serpent, Lord of the Hunt, set him on this path. Akachi would find the girl. Finding her would see him anointed as a true pastor. She was his way out of this filthy district and back to the North Cathedral. Maybe even to the inner rings. He’d do it, and he’d be years younger than his father.

  Then he’ll respect me. Then he’ll love me.

  Calming breaths did nothing. Whatever this girl was, street sorcerer or Loa heretic, he’d soon have her.

  The hunt is on!

  The next morning, standing before the gathered Hummingbirds and his fellow priests, Akachi laid out his thoughts. “The Grower I am looking for didn’t show. We sounded the drums and she didn’t come.” He knew it wouldn’t be so easy. Cloud Serpent wouldn’t have selected him for something so simple and effortless as waiting for a girl to walk into a trap. In a way, he decided, this was better. A real hunt. Real prey, intelligent and cunning. Excitement sped his heart.

  “What if she lives on the outer edge of this neighbourhood?” asked Jumoke. “She might live closer to one of the other churches.”

  “She lives nearby,” said Akachi, confident, but not sure why.

  “Or maybe she doesn’t live in the Wheat District at all,” suggested Nafari.

  “She lives here,” Akachi repeated.

  “Or she never attends church,” said Captain Yejide. “It happens,” she added. “We pretend it doesn’t, but not all the Growers work in the fields. Not all go to church.”

  “How do they survive?” asked Nafari. “How do they eat?”

  “They feed off the others, trade sex and drugs for food. Some have even managed to work deals with Crafters.” She eyed the priests. “And then some are Loa and have contacts reaching into the very heart of Bastion.”

  Nafari looked doubtful but said nothing.

  “I didn’t think the Loa were real,” said Jumoke.

  Everyone ignored him.

  Akachi rubbed at his eyes, forced himself to focus. The scar. He remembered the vision, the brutal line dividing the girl’s features. “She is scarred.” He drew a line across his face from his right temple to the left side of his chin, passing through his lips. “She will stand out. I want patrols looking for her. Talimba,” he nodded at the Hummingbird, “can you blend in, ask around?”

  Talimba glanced at Yejide and she nodded. Face expressionless, he said, “I’ll find a place. Work in the fields with them. I’ll find out where they drink, where they get drugs. If she lives nearby, I’ll find her.”

  “Good. Once you know where she lives, report back. Don’t take any chances.”

  “I’ll get changed.” Talimba spun on his heel and left without another word.

  That Talimba carried a grey thobe in his kit spoke worlds about their intentions. And of how prepared they were.

  I can’t rely on Talimba to find this girl. Cloud Serpent sent me.

  This was Akachi’s task. She was out there, not far. He’d stalk her in her dreams. If she was a street sorcerer, he’d face her in battle. I’ll need a couple of days to cure and prepare the narcotics. Facing an unknown enemy unprepared would be foolish.

  NURU – IN SMOKE AND STONE

  Temple-trained nahualli believe the veil separates us from a multitude of worlds and realities populated by all manner of strange yet strangely familiar spirits.

  They are wrong.

  The veil separates Bastion from the rest of this world. The Sand Wall is the physical manifestation of the veil.

  Souls are eternal. Nothing truly dies.

  When a sorcerer thins the veil, when they make contact with something beyond, they are merely connecting with the souls and spirits of our own dead world. Not only did billions of people die in the Last War, but so did every animal and god that wasn’t brought within Bastion’s hallowed walls. They are universally desperate, hungry to gain entrance, if just for a moment.

  Like the gods of Bastion, they feed off us.

  —Loa Book of the Invisibles

  Nuru stood over Efra, examining the sleeping girl. So small, such a clenched fist of tension.

  Why does she matter?

  Soon, she would answer that question.

  Efra woke with a groan and squinted blearily up at Nuru. “My ribs feel like they’d been kicked in by a gang of angry… Ah. Fuck.”

  She rolled over, the course blanket pulled up to he her chin as if it might protect her from the memories.

  The basement was dark, but a dim light shone from above, lighting the same set of stone steps every tenement had leading to its basement.

  Touching her ribs, Efra winced. “Last I remember, Fadil’s gang were somewhere between beating me to death and raping whatever was left.” She groaned again, rubbing her temples. “I have this weird memory of the gang storming in like heroes from some story.” She stopped, darted an uncertain glance at Nuru. “I remember there being a snake as well, but that part seems even weirder than the rest.”

  “I’m going to light a candle,” said Nuru.

  She felt the girl’s eyes on her. Efra cowered in her blanket when a warm yellow light filled the basement.
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  “You’re beautiful,” said Efra. “Or you would be if you cut your hair and took all the bones out.”

  Nuru swept the bound hair over her shoulder protectively. “Never.”

  The bones and braids, like the dark tattoos snaking her flesh, were a part of what she was. It was her story writ in the only language she knew. Each bone meant something, reminded her of a specific moment. Each tattoo told the tale of a hard lesson learned. The bones the nahual ignored. The tattoos would see her flayed.

  “It’s too hot for a scarf,” said Efra.

  “That’s Isabis,” answered Nuru, stroking the sleeping snake.

  “Oh.”

  Interesting, Isabis doesn’t bother her. That was rare. Even Chisulo refused to go anywhere near the creature.

  Efra studied Nuru. “How’d I get here?”

  “Chisulo carried you. I dressed you.” Nuru coughed a soft laugh. “Though I did have to convince Happy I didn’t need his help.”

  “Thanks.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “I think I’m going to puke.”

  “You already did. Several times. Blows to the head can do that.”

  Shrugging aside the blanket, Efra staggered to her feet. She stood, weaving drunkenly. “Chisulo carried me?”

  Nuru remembered the sight of the petite woman cradled in his strong arms. “It’s who he is,” she said. “He needs to take care of people. He needs to feel people can trust him, that they can rely on him.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s who he is,” Nuru repeated.

  Turning to her table she retrieved a fire-hardened wood spike. Omari found it at Fadil’s and the surviving gang members said she used it to kill the Fadil. Knowing Efra would want it back, Nuru cleaned the gore from it.

  She held the spike out in offering. “This is yours.”

  Flashing a look of gratitude, Efra made the spike disappear into the folds of her thobe.

  “Can you make it upstairs?” Nuru asked.

  Efra nodded and led the way. She moved slow, one hand brushing the stone wall for balance. Nuru snuffed her precious candle, lay the snake on the floor, cooed to it to behave, and followed her up.

  In the room above, they found Chisulo, Happy, and Omari sitting on overturned boxes and drinking from wood mugs.

  Efra hesitated at the top of the stairs, uncertain.

  Nuru stopped behind her.

  Seeing the two women, Chisulo gestured at the remaining box. “Sit.”

  Though Efra was part of the gang, attended meetings in this kitchen, she’d never before been offered a seat.

  “It’s only because Bomani’s gone,” she said. “Shouldn’t Nuru get the box?”

  “Nuru never sits,” said Chisulo. “Go ahead.” He looked hollow, wrung out.

  She sat.

  With narrowed eyes Omari studied Efra. “That’s Bomani’s.”

  Efra gave him a flat look. “Bomani is dead.”

  Omari came out of his chair, flint dagger appearing as if by magic. “I’m going to open you—”

  “No,” said Chisulo. “You’re not.”

  “She—”

  “We don’t hurt our own. Ever.”

  “But—”

  “Ever.” Chisulo took a deep breath. “And she’s right. He’s gone.”

  Omari collapsed back onto his box and glared hate at Efra.

  “Where are the men from Fadil’s gang?” she asked.

  “I put one in charge of running Fadil’s corner,” said Chisulo. “He knows a Grower who has a patch hidden in one of the wheat fields where he harvests erlaxatu.”

  “And you need his connections.”

  Chisulo nodded.

  “But they aren’t here.” She gestured at the table. “You don’t really trust them.”

  “No.”

  “But I’m here.”

  “For now,” said Omari.

  “And you’ve finally offered me a place at the table.”

  Efra looked from the Finger to Happy to Chisulo, and glanced over her shoulder at Nuru, who still stood at the top of the stairs.

  Efra returned her attention to Chisulo. “You don’t trust me because I’m not one of you, because I didn’t grow up in the same crèche. You see the way I stay on the outside. I keep to myself. You want to see if I can do it, if I can fit in. If I can be one of you.”

  “Can you?” asked Nuru.

  “I can fake it.”

  Nuru snorted amusement. “At least she’s honest.”

  “I need time. I’ve been alone…forever.” Efra shrugged. “There’s a cost—a danger—to belonging.”

  Chisulo sat forward, the overturned box creaking. “And that is?”

  “Vulnerability. When Bomani died, it hurt you. All of you.”

  Chisulo flinched.

  “It still hurts,” said Nuru. “It will for a very long time.”

  “It doesn’t hurt me,” said Efra. “I survive because I can do anything to anyone. Nothing ever hurts me.” She touched her scar, her bruised ribs. “Except being kicked and cut.”

  “I don’t think you’re as hard as you claim,” said Nuru.

  “You don’t exactly look like you’ve been thriving,” added Omari.

  “And you’re not great with people,” said Chisulo.

  “Efra,” said Nuru, “I need your help. Will you help me?”

  Efra turned on the box so she could see the street-sorcerer.

  She’s wondering if she should ask what I need help with.

  “What are you thinking?” Nuru asked.

  “I’m wondering if I should ask what you need help with.”

  Honesty, again.

  “You can.”

  Now she’s wondering if this is a test. Which, of course, it was.

  “I’ll help you,” said Efra.

  “Good,” said Nuru. “Let’s go for a walk. We need to talk, and it smells like balls in here.”

  “Should I come?” asked Chisulo.

  “So I can bring the stench of balls with me? No thanks.” She glanced at Efra. “You feel up to walking?”

  She grimaced. “I’ll manage.”

  Once out on the street, Nuru grabbed Efra’s hand. Growers staggered about their business. Everyone was bent, exhausted. Most looked so tired they barely paid attention to where they were going. Even the youths, those fresh out of the crèche, looked bone-weary, old before their time.

  They’re working us to death.

  They walked the first block in silence, hand in hand.

  A train of massive wagons, each drawn by four oxen, rumbled down the street on their way to the gate to the Crafters’ Ring. Piled high, they were loaded with tight-bound sheaves of golden wheat, bushels of bright fruits and vegetables, and cages of clucking chickens. The Birds were everywhere, red armour glowing in the sun. She overheard them talking about how there’d been a riot in a neighbouring district.

  “You think the Dirts stink now,” said one, “you should smell ‘em when they been lying dead in the sun for a couple of days.”

  Squads of Birds walked or rode with each wagon. Nuru couldn’t imagine what it would be like to ride.

  Between a row of tenements, she caught sight of the gates through the Grey Wall. The larger of the two, a colossal wooden thing which somehow lifted itself into the wall, was for the wagons. A smaller gate, off to the side, provided the inner rings with entrance to the Growers’ Ring. A squad of Birds stood at each gate. They searched each wagon before allowing it to leave the Growers’ Ring.

  This close to the gates, it wasn’t uncommon to see Crafters. Their orange and brown clothes stood out in the grey world of the Growers. They travelled in small groups, sometimes shepherded by a Bird or two, sometimes, very rarely, alone. They never went far from the wall. Growers knew to avoid them. Except for the whores. It was easy to pick out the whores. Their thobes were clean, their hair less greasy. And they were fatter and softer than the rest of the Growers. The whores were the real gateway. Every illicit ite
m, every narcotic beyond the euphoria-inducing erlaxatu grown in secret fields, every tool in the Growers’ Ring, came in through the whores. They traded sex for the forbidden.

  What wonders lay beyond the gate? What magic did they work to turn wood and stone, animals and plants, into tools and food?

  There, coming back through the gate, was a convoy of returning wagons bearing the simple farming implements required by the Growers to work the menageries and fields. These were the only tools allowed in the ring, and even then, the nahual made it clear Bastion owned everything. Anyone caught bringing such things back to their tenements was either lashed in the public square, or sacrificed to the gods, depending on what they stole.

  Another wagon rolled past, bringing with it the stink of ox sweat and dung. Neat rows of hard-bread—a basic staple for Growers—sat stacked on long shelves. A whore once told Nuru that she’d eaten a soft-bread, a gift from her Crafter lover. It was, she said, the most delicious thing she’d ever tasted.

  Nuru walked at Efra’s side, still holding her hand. The woman ignored everything, seemed to stare at things Nuru couldn’t see.

  “Why are you holding my hand,” Efra asked.

  “If men see this, they’ll think we’re together. They’ll leave us alone.”

  “We are together.”

  “I mean together, like lovers.”

  Efra considered this for a moment, lips pursed. “Oh.” Efra glanced at the her. “Any time I want release, I get a man. Even scarred, volunteers are easy to come by. They’re not too picky, I guess.” She laughed. “Chisulo.” She flattened her nose with a finger and made a comical face mocking the look he got any time he was concentrating on something. “Maybe I’m not too picky either.” She glanced at Nuru. “Are you like that? Do you prefer women?”

  “I need help getting some stuff,” said Nuru, ignoring the question.

  “What stuff?”

  “Stuff that’ll get us killed if we’re caught.”

  “What stuff?” Efra repeated.

  “That simple? No other questions?”

  “What else should I ask?”

  Nuru studied her for a moment before shrugging. “I need tools. Crafter tools. I need stone-carving tools.”