The Waking Fire

by Anthony Ryan

  “That’s the first . . . movement,” Tekela told Jermayah in Mandinorian as the last note faded, her tone apologetic as she lowered the probe and the device remained stubbornly inert.

  “You didn’t hit every chime,” he said. “I suspect the tune needs to include every note.”

  “The main theme,” Arberus said. “It’s fairly complex as I recall.”

  Tekela thought for a moment then tapped out the sequence, the notes from the eight chimes overlapping to produce a lilting harmonic resonance. The bolt in the centre of the solargraph issued a loud click then made a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn counter-clockwise. Another series of clicks emerged from the device as the three levers on the top began to move, then came to a halt as the final chime fell silent.

  “Seer’s balls,” Jermayah breathed. “It’s powered by music.”

  —

  “He’s calling it ‘kinetic resonance,’” Lizanne said, then gave an involuntary crouch at the whining growl of a shell passing overhead. “The conversion of sound to energy. I must say it’s a fascinating phenomenon to observe.”

  Madame had established her headquarters in a large Old Colonial residence near the south wall. Apparently, it had been the home of the Contractor’s Guild, who had generously gifted, or more likely surrendered it to her needs. Much of the grounds and surrounding houses had been converted to makeshift hospitals where doctors, nurses and volunteers tended the growing number of wounded carried back from the trench-works as the Corvantine bombardment continued to take a steady toll. It had been nearly midnight when Lizanne made her way here, passing through rows of tents from which a chorus of pained voices could be heard, a chorus she knew would only grow louder with every passing day.

  Madame had moved her private quarters to the house’s basement after a few Corvantine shells had made it over the wall to smash some neighbouring homes to splinters. She sat at her desk from the Academy, presumably moved here with the aid of Black, the voluminous stacks of reports and messages arranged into neat but tall piles on either side of her. For now, however, her full attention was fixed on Lizanne.

  “So, it’s working?” she said.

  “When the right combination of notes is played, yes. We’re having to guess which tunes to play. It appears the Artisan was clever in his choice of music. ‘The Leaves of Autumn’ unlocks it, whilst the three dials indicating the orbits of the moons will respond to an old Corvantine ditty called, ‘Dance of the Heavens.’ The other two dials remain inert but Miss Artonin and Major Arberus are compiling a list of likely candidates. Jermayah is of the opinion they relate to geography, as their dimensions correspond to the old Corvantine reckoning for latitude and longitude.”

  “Excellent work, Lizanne.” Madame’s tone was free of any triumph, possessed of a pre-rehearsed formality Lizanne recognised as signifying the end of a contract. “Tomorrow, Protectorate officers will collect the device and notes for examination by my scholarly associates. Please instruct Jermayah to resume construction of his deadly novelties. You and your associates may assist him in this regard if you wish. From now on your only role in this mission will be as conduit to Mr. Torcreek. If, as I expect, he fails to make contact during tomorrow’s trance, you may consider your mission complete. Any accommodations you wish to make with Exceptional Initiatives regarding Major Arberus and Miss Artonin, are your concern alone.”

  Lizanne was glad of her decision to leave the Whisper at Jermayah’s for some maintenance work; otherwise the temptation to shoot Madame between the eyes would have been hard to resist. As it was, she could only stand at rigid attention as she sought to maintain a suddenly fragile composure. She thinks the Longrifles dead, she realised. But, provided this city remains standing, another expedition can be sent, an expedition firmly under her sole control. Even without benefit of the trance she knew Madame’s black web of obsession to be fully grown now, leaving no room for shared profit. The White was to be hers alone.

  “I assume,” Lizanne began in as carefully modulated a tone as she could manage, “Madame has confirmed this course of action via trance with the Board.”

  “The Board are frightfully busy at the moment,” Madame replied, her voice as colourless as before. “You may have noticed why.”

  Was this always your plan? Lizanne wondered. Have the war provide a cloak for your ambition? With the Corvantines at our throats the Board will accede to any notion that might offer salvation. “What do you imagine will happen if it’s ever found?” she asked. “Every clue uncovered by Mr. Torcreek and every scrap of evidence provided by the late Burgrave Artonin, it all speaks of something best left in peace.”

  “Cowardice and profit are rare bedfellows,” Madame replied.

  “Profit is dependent on a successful outcome to this siege. As yet, I have seen little reason for optimism.”

  Madame smiled, a spectacle Lizanne once saw as merely unusual but now found chilling. “You under-estimate Jermayah’s abilities,” Madame said. “Ask him to show you some of his new toys. He has been very busy.”

  —

  “A magazine of fifty rounds,” Jermayah said, slotting the component into a port on the top of the weapon’s barrel-shaped breech, a long narrow box containing a stack of standard rifle-bullets. He worked a lever to chamber the first round before taking hold of the handle extending from the machine’s underside. “Best cover your ears,” he said and began to wind, the weapon’s six barrels blurring into motion.

  Even though Lizanne clamped her hands firmly over her ears, the blast was near deafening, like a whole platoon of infantry firing at once. Shiny Man had been spared this demonstration though the sandbag-covered wall behind his usual standing-place received some fearful punishment, a faint hiss of escaping sand accompanying the echo of fading gun-fire.

  “Rate of fire depends on how fast you turn the handle,” Jermayah explained, tugging tufts of cotton wool from his ears. “A well-drilled crew can manage over three hundred a minute.”

  “What do you call it?” Major Arberus asked, staring down at the weapon with an expression that told of keen if somewhat awed appreciation.

  “Officially, ‘Rapid-fire Device Mark Four.’” Jermayah gave a shrug. “Been calling it the Growler.”

  “Should call it . . . monster,” Tekela said, regarding the smoking barrels with obvious dislike.

  “This monster might save this city,” Lizanne reminded her before turning to Jermayah. “How many do we have?”

  “Got a half-dozen finished before the siege began. There’s more being made under contract at other shops along with the plentiful stocks of ammunition they need. It’s a slow process though, since the designs are so new. Still, they should take a fearful toll on the Corvantines. Would’ve liked a chance to finish Mark Five though.”

  “Mark Five?” Arberus asked. “You improved on this?”

  “Not really an improvement.” Jermayah moved away, leading them to a large, tarpaulin-shrouded lump in the deepest recesses of the shop. He gestured to the major to take hold of the covering and together they hauled it free. “More like an enlargement. I call it the Thumper.”

  This one really is a monster, Lizanne decided, eyeing the revealed contraption. It stood taller and broader than its younger sibling with four barrels instead of six, and of a calibre at least five times the size.

  “Fires this,” Jermayah said, holding up a bullet that appeared to be suffering from some form of elephantiasis. “Point-eight-inch explosive shell. Thought the Maritime Protectorate might have a use for it but never got the chance to demonstrate it.”

  “So it might not work?” Arberus asked.

  “All my devices work, sir,” Jermayah replied, his tone slightly peeved. “Put three rounds through her and she worked fine. Would’ve been more but I was worried the shop might come down. Had to contract a bricklayer to repair the damage as it was.”

  “Can you make mo
re shells?” Lizanne asked.

  “Got stocks of brass, steel and propellant enough for maybe two hundred. Take a while though, and it’s delicate work.”

  Lizanne took the shell from him, feeling the weight of it and the smoothness of the projectile. One shell could bring down four men at once . . . A recent memory rose in her mind, flames blossoming in the darkened jungle and Captain Flaxknot’s fearful countenance. Or, perhaps even a full-grown drake.

  “What else have we got to do?” she said, handing the shell back. “Show me.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Clay

  It was a nightmare Clay hadn’t had for many a year, though it had haunted him for a time in the Blinds, fading when he found Joya and Derk. The scene was much as it had been in life, though whatever vicious corner of his mind crafting this version had added a few details; the blood covering his father’s hands for example, and the rent and torn body of Clay’s mother on the card-table before him. A stack of scrip and exchange notes were piled atop the corpse, stained red but otherwise unnaturally rigid and neat. Clay’s father turned, cigarillo poised before his lips as he regarded the boy standing at the tavern-door with a less-than-welcoming grin. Clay could see the faces of the cards in his other hand, a winning hand in Mourning Jacks, unbeatable. He was about to become a rich man, though give him another day and he’d be poor again.

  “Ma’s dead,” Clay said, as he had when this hadn’t been a dream.

  “So your uncle tells me,” his father replied, turning back to the table and adding another hundred scrip to the blood-stained pot, the notes sticking to the blood on the dead woman’s face.

  “Heard you were back,” Clay said. “Been looking for you.” Another truth, coloured by a high, desperate tone that tore at his insides now. “For more than a week.”

  “Been busy.” His father jangled the tooth necklace about his neck. “With a goodly haul, too, I might add.”

  “How much were you gonna give to Ma?” The desperate tone had gone now, though Clay didn’t recall his voice being so utterly devoid of emotion.

  “She showed me the door.” His father laughed as one of the other players upped his bet. “Ain’t no obligations twixt us, boy. Go on back to your uncle.”

  “How much were you gonna give to Ma?” The pistol was an aged one-shot hammer-lock and felt heavy in his boy’s hands. His uncle kept a chest of old weapons in his basement, securely locked but Clay knew where he kept the key. He chose the pistol because it was the only one with ammunition that seemed to fit, though he wasn’t too sure he had loaded it right. Even so, he had every intention of finding out.

  His father froze as Clay drew back the hammer with a loud click. “Showed you the door ’cause you broke two of my ribs after you broke her nose for the second time,” Clay said. “Showed you the door because you’re a mean drunk and a lousy gambler.”

  His father didn’t turn and Clay always believed he knew what would happen next. It was in the forced shrug of his shoulders as he unfroze himself, and the overly mannered way he added more money to the pot. A man maintaining a lifetime’s façade in the face of death. “She,” he said, nodding at the corpse on the table, “was a fine woman who deserved better. She had a kindness and grace rarely seen in this place, and I always knew I wasn’t worthy. It made me hate, and drink and seek death in the Interior. I know this is my end, I know my own son will kill me this night, and I know it to be fitting.”

  He hadn’t, of course, said any of this. These words were born of the nightmare. In fact he had said, “Your ma was a whore. Fucked if I ever knew you were even mine.” It didn’t matter, though in the succeeding years Clay would often lie to himself that it had been these words that sealed his father’s fate. But the fact was, nothing was going to save him.

  He remembered the pistol-shot being louder than it was now, more a roar than the dry hiss and crack of hammer finding powder to send the ball into the back of his father’s head. He also recalled the place erupting into panic and discord as the mingling of headhunters and Blinds scum decided how to react to another murder. But now there was no commotion. They all just sat drinking or carousing and the other players at the table kept on with their game. Clay’s last glimpse of his father had been of him slumped across the table, blood and brains leaking from the front and rear of his head, just before he turned and ran, losing himself in the maze of street and alley. But now he stood, still and fascinated as his father rose from the table, face streaked with blood from the hole in his forehead as he turned to his son, fond smile on his lips. Clay began to scream when he started to speak.

  —

  The screaming kept on until it choked him, making him retch and flail. It took a while before two thoughts surfaced amidst the confusion and sputter: I’m alive. This ain’t no dream.

  He stopped flailing, lying with chest heaving on what he realised was something soft. A few seconds’ blinking brought his eyes into focus and he found himself staring at a stone ceiling. The temple? he wondered, recognising the pattern of stonework as similar to the great pyramid. It couldn’t be. The place was surely still burning or charred black as coal by now. He tried sitting up, finding the ache of his limbs so severe the task defeated him. Grunting, he tried again, his surroundings swaying as he came upright, head abuzz with the fugue of recent awakening.

  He was in a circular chamber of broad dimensions, the lines of the columns that supported the ceiling and the tiles on the floor convincing him this was another structure in the city. The thick wall of vines that covered the exterior and excluded sunlight also indicated it was as heavily overgrown as everything else. An opening in the centre of the floor revealed a spiral stairwell descending into gloom. To his right sat a desk of basic construction, clearly fashioned from locally harvested timber judging by the bark still clinging to its roughly finished edges. It was piled high with papers, stacked into neat beribboned bundles. A pen sat in an ink-well beside an unfurled sheet half-covered in an artful, flowing script. Clay sat up straighter upon noting the freshness of the ink and the two-thirds-melted candle that sat next to the paper.

  He realised he was fully clothed, though his boots were gone. Casting around he saw them placed at the foot of the bed on which he sat, his duster rolled up beside them and, sitting propped against the wall, the holstered Stinger complete with remaining ammunition. A quick exploration found no injuries beyond the scrapes to his hands, though there was a cluster of pale spots on his forearm, presumably the result of the Green he shot in the temple. He got up, staggering as the chamber tilted again and the buzz in his head rose to a greater pitch of intensity. He stumbled towards his belongings, snatching up the Stinger and checking the cylinder to find it empty. He began to reload it immediately, cursing as his trembling fingers sent bullets skittering across the floor.

  “Shit!” He bent to chase after one wayward round then stopped as his eyes found something more.

  It had been arranged around the back of a chair of similarly crude construction to the desk, a coat of some kind, a coat fashioned so as to resemble a thick swaddling of rags. Sitting on the chair was a long walking-stick, the bulbous head of which bore the signs of extensive and inexpert whittling.

  The Black, plunging down out of the smoke . . . The Black with someone perched on its back . . . Someone he had last seen on the Red Sands . . .

  “So, you’re finally awake.”

  He whirled, Stinger coming round to aim at the figure emerging from the stairwell. She was a diminutive woman of perhaps forty, hair cut short to frame a fine-boned, pale-featured face of North Mandinorian origin. There were some lines in her forehead and around her eyes but she seemed to Clay to possess a vitality that belied any age, an impression fortified by the brightness of her smile.

  “Probably best if you don’t do that,” she advised, climbing the last few steps, Clay tracking her with the Stinger. He noticed she bore a tray with a bowl of something that stea
med and gave off a hunger-inducing aroma.

  “Don’t move!” he ordered, his commanding tone undermined somewhat by a fresh wave of dizziness that saw him take a stumbling step to the right.

  “Really,” she said, smile unfaltering and showing an absolute absence of fear, “that’s not the best idea . . .”

  She trailed off as a deep, rumbling sound came from outside. It wasn’t particularly loud but the tone of it sent a tremor through him and he felt the stone beneath his feet throb with it. A dark shadow passed by outside the wall of vines, air whooshing as it swayed back and forth with slow deliberation.

  “You’re making him nervous,” the woman said.

  Clay slowly lowered the Stinger, the rumbling noise and whooshing shadow stopping as he did so.

  “Guinea fowl soup,” the woman said, holding up the tray.

  “Who . . .” He staggered again, coming close to falling. The woman set the tray down on the desk and came to his side, guiding him back to the bed. “Who are you?”

  She stood back, smile less bright now, a little sad in fact as she extended a hand. “Ethelynne Drystone, sir. And you are?”

  —

  He sat at the desk eating soup with a mis-shapen steel spoon he guessed she must have carried with her from Carvenport all those years ago. He asked no questions of his own, for she seemed to have plenty enough for the both of them. “And Madame Bondersil seemed well to you?” she enquired, eyes bright with a keen desire for knowledge, though not so hungry for it as he might imagine her to be. Just an old pupil asking after a fondly remembered teacher.

  “She’s vital enough, alright,” he said and gulped down another mouthful. It may have been due to his hunger, but the soup seemed just about the best thing he had ever eaten. Rich in flavour and seasoned with pepper and wild thyme. “Though I gotta say, she has a somewhat severe disposition.”