The Forgotten City

by Nina D'Aleo

  Once the smugglers were out of sight, Septimo came over to her with that smile on his face that’s she’d always found so enticing. He never seemed to age, always keeping the same boyish swagger and cheekiness that she remembered from when they were young. He was the one the girls were told to stay away from, with good reason – a reason that was immediately forgotten as soon as he smiled. Septimo wrapped his arms around her and she leaned into him. He smelled too good. Perfumes were his cover trade – all of them way beyond what she could afford. Another stab of pain sent her staggering. Septimo grabbed her around the waist, checked for who was watching them, then half-carried her to the shop behind his stall. It wasn’t a tent, like the shops on the Strip, it was a proper rock structure. Septimo’s mother was sitting in the entranceway, a suspicious woman who had lost her mind when she lost a daughter, even before Septimo was born. She wasn’t one to trust with a turned back; the knife scar just above one of Croy’s shoulder blades attested to that. The woman was crazy dangerous and the only reason she hadn’t been exiled into the tunnels was that Septimo had paid off the Conference Judge – and kept paying him. Sometimes Croy wondered how Septimo could care so much for a woman who barely recognized him, and even attacked him if he went too close, but she didn’t question it. She understood, even though she’d never experienced it herself, that the mother-bond was powerful. To the point where, even though she had no memory at all of her own mother, sometimes she still had feelings of missing her.

  Septimo’s mother hissed at them as they moved past her into a backroom. Once there, Septimo closed the curtains in her face, shutting her out.

  While the front stall and shop face were the picture of legitimate business, back here with the floor cushions, dimmed candles and incense smoke it looked as though they’d stepped straight into Saint Smithy Roughtown. Septimo lowered Croy down onto one of the cushions and sat opposite her. He took out a pipe and lit it up. This smoke was sweeter than Darius’ tigaro and made her feel lightheaded. Septimo watched her through the haze, waiting.

  Croy grabbed the bundle of parchments from her jacket and dumped it down between them. He gathered them up, but didn’t go through them. After all these annums, he knew her information was always good. There was a time she’d felt guilty selling the secrets of the Martial Corps to a criminal, but that time was long past. She did what she had to. John L had taught her that.

  She rolled up her pants past her knee and tentatively loosened the bandage as Septimo took out a syringe and dragged liquid into it from a large decanter. He handed the needle over to her and watched as she injected herself. After a moment more of agonizing pain, her knee went numb and she slumped back, sinking into a gray fog.

  When she finally raised her eyelids, heavy and sluggish, Septimo was still smoking, flicking through the papers she’d given him. He felt her stare and looked up, narrowing his eyes, reading her.

  “What’s wrong?” he finally asked.

  “Nothing.”

  He exhaled a cloud of smoke and said, “Tell me.”

  “Just the job.” Her words ran into each other and she shifted on the cushion, feeling disconnected from her own body. “A few crazies. A few guys …”

  “Guys?” Septimo raised an eyebrow, his gaze sharpening. He put down his pipe and leaned forward. “Who? Smugglers?”

  “No – like one guy and then another guy – Controllers – colleagues.”

  “Well, what can you do? You’re popular.” He drummed his fingers on the surface of his side-table. “What’re their names?”

  It was a simple enough question, and she seriously considered telling him about Roth and Knightsbridge and Newton, but she wasn’t gone enough not to realize that would have consequences. Underneath the smile and charm, Septimo was a brutal smuggler, leader of his mob, and ruthless to the core. She knew he saw her, or at least her information, as a valuable asset, and he protected his assets.

  She shook her head. “I’m handling it. It doesn’t matter.”

  He leaned back in the cushion and sighed deeply, still watching her.

  “What?” She pushed the hair out of her face.

  “I can’t help you if you won’t tell me anything.”

  “Really it’s nothing. I’m just tired.”

  “So lie down and rest.” He smiled.

  “I should head off,” she said.

  “You just got here.”

  It was way too warm in there and her eyelids were feeling heavy again. She knew she had to go back to work and hear about how a bunch of Purple Wings were going to prevent Grays from rioting because they were starving and thirsting to death. She highly suspected none of the plan would involve sharing the masses of food and supplies from the Purple Wing stores, and that was too much to deal with.

  She lay back a little, not wanting to think about it, and sensed Septimo moving closer. She felt his hand on her shoulder as he sat down right beside her. The cushion sagged inward, pushing them together. She leaned away a bit, stretching out and looking through the gap in the mat door to the markets outside. There was a guy walking with two children. He grabbed up the little girl and whooshed her through the air making zooming sounds – perhaps he had aspirations for his daughter to become a Fleetsman. So many did and so few made it. Croy felt Septimo watching her closely.

  “You want kids?” he said, his voice soft.

  She shook her head. “Why bring someone into this …”

  “That’s what I say,” he agreed.

  He stroked a hand down her face, then leaned in and kissed her with an intensity that made her ache. It made a nice change from Roth, who had always seemed like he could barely stand to be near her.

  “The Teriscoria has been destroyed,” she murmured.

  “I know,” he said, kissing her neck. He moved on top of her and started undoing his pants.

  “I’m supposed to be at work,” Croy said, making only a token effort to get away.

  “Work.” He pushed up her shirt. “Forget it – come work for me.”

  She laughed. “Doing what?”

  “This,” he whispered and slid his hands up between her thighs until she gasped.

  He started to rip down her pants when suddenly a gun pushed around the curtain and pressed against Septimo’s temple. The smuggler’s eyes widened and he sprung to his feet, his own gun drawn.

  Croy staggered up and saw Darius standing in the doorway, his eyes locked onto Septimo. She stood between the two men, Darius blazing and Septimo cold.

  “You brought a friend?” the smuggler said to her, his voice dangerous.

  “No,” she said emphatically. She couldn’t lose him as a supplier, she’d spent too long building the trust. “He’s my partner.”

  Septimo looked Darius up and down and she saw he was recognizing him. Croy dared a glance at Darius’ face to make sure he hadn’t seen the parchments.

  “Get out, both of you,” Septimo warned, gesturing with his weapon.

  Croy moved fast, pushing out through the curtain and grabbing hold of Darius’ arm. She dragged at him until he backed up and followed her past the stalls and along the gridway. Once they’d gone a short distance from the market, he pushed her roughly and yelled, “What are you doing? You said you weren’t taking anymore. You swore!”

  “I lied!” she yelled back. “That’s what addicts do!”

  His anger simmered down at the words. She’d never admitted it before.

  “You’re not an addict. You’re in pain,” he said, and hearing him make excuses for her hurt her almost as much as the scars. Both of them knew there were other, legal, medicines she could take for her pain. None of them worked as well, but they still worked. She’d just gotten hooked on mortacane and couldn’t stop.

  Darius changed the topic. “All kinds of hell have broken loose at the Tower. Everyone has new assignments. They want to contain the panic. They were asking for you at the meeting. I had to cover.”

  She didn’t say sorry or thank you because that would have m
ade him angrier. Instead she asked, “Where have we been sent?”

  “At the moment, nowhere,” he said. “We still have this nighturn off, and next shift VP will give us our new territory.” He shook his head and said with barely contained hatred, “The Drays …”

  “I know.” Croy nodded. She understood why he hated them even more than most. They’d killed his parents and made his childhood a living nightmare – and now they were trying to take everyone else out too.

  Darius shook off the anger and said, “I have to go to my game. So just – go home. Just go home.”

  He gave her a cutting look and started to walk away, leaving her.

  Croy hugged her arms around herself and lowered her head. She felt like crying, but no tears came. Septimo stood watching her from the front of his stall.

  Halfway down the grid, Darius halted. He turned and walked back to her.

  “What’s wrong with you?” he demanded, his anger flaring again. “What were you thinking letting some filth like that touch you?”

  “The job today – it shook me,” she said, and it was true in a sense, but not a honest answer to his question.

  “Yeah, well – me too,” he surprised her by admitting. “But you heard what VP said, case closed.”

  “It shouldn’t be.”

  “Of course not! But what can you do? Another day, another murder. It’s our job. Just shake it off. You’re stronger than this. It’s just because that sodwit Roth left. Why do you care so much? He didn’t treat you right anyway! He wasn’t good enough for you. I don’t understand!”

  He was looking at her straight in the eyes, which was rare for him. Usually he avoided all eye contact, even with her. There was hurt in his gaze and it twisted a knife inside her. She moved closer to him so that their bodies were almost touching. Her hand brushed against his. His eyes lowered to her lips and, for a moment, Croy thought he was actually going to kiss her, but then he stepped back and looked away, as though he was scoping for someone. When he looked back his eyes had hardened up.

  “Come on. Come and watch the game,” he said gruffly.

  “It’s alright. I’m starving. I’m going to get my package,” she replied. The last thing she wanted was to stand around faking interest in sport with Knightsbridge and Newton when the world was crumbling around them.

  “Then we’ll fly together till the field,” he insisted. He took her hand and dragged her away from the railing, then put his arm around her as they walked. She liked the sway of his hips against hers, but as soon as Septimo was out of sight, he moved away again, and they walked separately to their draggers.

  Chapter 19

  Silho

  Omar Montanya

  Mount Siria (The Castle Scorn)

  Silho gasped as life rushed back into her. Every breath was raw agony, but the pain was ecstasy – because she was alive. She was breathing. She coughed and tasted smoke – and remembered. Copernicus … Silho tried to sit up, but the chains around her arms and legs held her down. She struggled, thrashing against her binds until a burning hand touched her chest, draining all her strength in one violent jolt. She couldn’t move at all. Light-form. She’d used it a thousand times without understanding what a torture it was to be on the receiving end.

  A face loomed over her, darkened to indistinct shadows by the light above it. It lowered closer and Silho saw a man with long black hair and a gaunt, battle-hardened face. He had the empty eyes of a demon, one eyelid hanging heavier than the other. Silho blinked into light-form vision, hoping to siphon back her strength, but she was met with a burning pillar of flames that she couldn’t access. It blistered her eyes and she was forced to blink out.

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “Lecivion,” the man said, his voice flat, detached, as though it was someone else’s name and someone else’s life, for which he cared not at all. “Prince of Omar Montanya, and all of the scorchlands. And you, Silho Brabel … I’ve been waiting a long time to finally meet you – in person.”

  Silho remembered Raine had said Omar Montanya was the Omarian realm. Her eyes went to the so-called Prince’s bloodline marks – firebird dragons! Shock radiated through her, but she kept it contained beneath a layer of cold fury.

  “Well, untie me and let me shake your hand,” she said, the threat embedded in each word.

  His mouth twisted into a half-smile, half-snarl. “I think we both know how that would end.”

  “Do we?” Silho said. “You ambushed me at Sirenseron. Let me up now and we’ll have a fair fight.”

  “Oh, but this isn’t a fight.” Lecivion said. “This is you doing what I say. Now lie still.” He stabbed a needle into her arm and she groaned as a burning ache spread through her body. She saw other Omarians pushing machines closer to the bench where she lay. It was the first time she’d seen anyone from her father’s bloodline, but she felt no recognition of them – just hate.

  They started hooking her up with tubes, electrodes and monitors.

  “What are you doing to me?” she demanded. “Why am I here?”

  “You, Silho Brabel, are being converted into a vortex portal, within which our world will be placed – out of reach of the Indemeus X,” Lecivion told her.

  A desperate scream echoed around them and Silho managed to turn her head toward the sound.

  Below the raised platform where her bench stood, a space stretched out into the gray distance, every square of it occupied by more benches and more women chained down and hooked up to machines – thousands of them. Mostly they were motionless, but Silho caught movement here and there. One woman, near the front, was surrounded by Omarian soldiers. She was fighting her binds, and screaming, “Help! They’re going to kill him, they’re going to kill him!” over and over. Her terror and panic tore at Silho’s soul, and she raised her own voice in response.

  “Get away from her! Leave her alone!”

  Lecivion looked down at the scene without a flicker of emotion crossing his face. One of the Omarians near the screaming woman looked up. He shook his head and called something out to Lecivion in a language that Silho remembered her father speaking. Lecivion nodded and his soldier blinked to light-form vision, instantly draining the woman to ash. He breathed out a blast of fire, which zapped back through his lips. Then the soldiers started clearing the space away, brushing the ash into a bin as though it was no more than common dust. The callous brutality awakened Silho’s rage. She set her eyes on Lecivion, and if a thought could have killed, his heart would have stopped on the spot. He turned to her, feeling the ferocity of her gaze.

  “What’s it to you? Did you know her?” he asked, his tone mocking.

  “What are you doing to them?” Silho demanded.

  Lecivion continued to adjust the machines around her as he replied, “Well, in brief: we have one female – you – and we need another, for the other side of the vortex.”

  “What do you mean, another female – another Omarian?”

  “You are not Omarian.” Lecivion said sharply, his eyes snapping to her. “You’re a half-breed – let’s be clear about that – which is why we need another half. You see, you’re somewhat of a rarity – the first female to be born with any measure of our blood. Before you, even though we took women of all races, they only ever produced full-blood Omarian sons. We were all dominant – we consumed – until your mother …”

  She heard some color coming into his voice – a shade of red and black – hate and anger …

  “So we know it’s possible for another female half-breed to be born … it’s just unlikely, but if we have enough women, of enough races, surely one will produce a girl. If there were any of your mother’s kin left, of course, we’d start with them, but she was the last one … Draigar.” He snorted and smoke billowed out of his nose.

  “My mother was a Pyron,” Silho said. They were a rare race, but there were others.

  Lecivion gave his cold smile.

  “Surely you’re above swallowing every lie that’s stuffed
down your throat. Oren Harvey was Draigar – she tattooed the marks of a firelighter into her skin, and into yours – but her blood ran true to what she was … always.” He clenched his jaw.

  “What’s it to you? Did you know her?” Silho used his own words against him.

  Lecivion stared at her and flames surged inside the black of his pupils.

  “Yes, a man knows his wife – or at least he likes to believe he does …” His gaze went past her into his memories. He walked to the edge of the platform and gripped the railing, the metal immediately glowing with heat. “Do you understand what it’s like, looking out over the worlds and seeing outstretched hands in every direction? Not outstretched to give – but to take – always to take – when people need you to save them – you’re all they see – but then it’s over and you’re no longer relevant – and they forget – all the gratitude – all the promises … Your mother’s world was overrun with ratha demons. We went in and saved them, and your mother was a gift to me, a willing gift, so I thought – a princess – but Oren Harvey cared for nothing and no one but herself. She used me, then she used your father to fulfil her exact needs, then she left us both to rot – and that’s the truth of it.”

  Silho shook her head, his words stirring up a storm of emotions inside her. “Are you angry because she lied or because you loved her?” she asked, already knowing the answer, but wanting to hurt him with the truth. His kind of anger and jealousy, the type that drives a person crazy, couldn’t be twisted from anywhere but love. Silho had come to understand that the opposite of love wasn’t hate, it was indifference.