by Gav Thorpe
Aradryan took in a deep breath, trying to figure out a way through the sprawling maze of arches and traffic.
‘We should head to the Spire of Discontented Bliss,’ suggested Caolein.
Aradryan felt the other pilot merging with him on the guidance matrix, their spirits coalescing briefly as Caolein highlighted a route towards their destination. On the display in front of them, a gleaming silver ribbon appeared, turning beneath a wide gantry before spiralling down towards one of the lower docks about a third of the way around the rim of the interspace.
Nudging Irdiris into line with the proposed trajectory, Aradryan enjoyed the sensation of movement afforded by the view of the city. In the webway, it was often the case that there was no sense of momentum, but as bright windows flashed past and roadways speared overhead he could feel the ship racing into Khai-dazaar. In fact, he felt they were going too fast and directed Irdiris to slow down, which required another course correction to keep them from heading into the higher levels of a spire.
Concentrating intensely, Aradryan was soon lost in the task of guiding the ship safely to its destination; always Caolein’s presence was there with him to take over should he make a mistake. Determined not to embarrass himself, Aradryan pictured the elegant sapphiretails of the Dome of Enchanted Declarations, and in doing so Irdiris swooped gracefully down into the lower depths of the city, passing through the shadow of an immense battleship marked with tiger stripes of black and purple.
‘Commorraghans?’ he said in surprise, recognising the blade-like design of the energy arrays and steering fins.
‘There are eldar of all kindreds here,’ said Caolein. ‘Rangers, corsairs, Commorraghans, traders from the craftworlds. And, of course, Harlequins, White Seers and others.’
Slowing the ship to a sedate glide, Aradryan made final adjustments towards the sweeping arc of the dock portal highlighted in the display. There were black stone runes embedded in the white stone of the gateway: ‘Of all the Fates that Morai-heg wove, none was so damned as the life of Narai-tethor.’ The reference was lost on Aradryan; a myth-tale he had not heard. He glanced at Caolein, who sensed his desire for explanation over the piloting interface.
‘I have no idea,’ laughed the pilot with a shrug. ‘I think it might be from Saim-Hann, or maybe Thelth-adris. The city has been built by people from every craftworld and beyond, each leaving their own mark and stories.’
A guidance beacon sprang into glittering life as they flew into the opening of the dock, connecting with the Irdiris. Aradryan latched on to this wave of psychic energy and allowed the ship to slowly slew sideways, adjustor vanes angled steeply to kill the rest of its momentum. With barely a shudder to indicate they had touched down, Irdiris extended her landing feet and settled on the concourse between two pearl-sailed pleasure yachts.
‘Stylish,’ said Caolein, leaning back from the controls with a smile.
Aradryan shut down the piloting controls and directed his thoughts through the psychic matrix, informing the others that they had arrived. He felt a flutter of excitement emanating from the rest of the crew, and it was infectious. The viewing sphere enlarged, showing a real-light view of their surroundings. Aradryan could not see any other eldar on the broad apron, but the matrix of Irdiris buzzed with the life of the city.
‘So this is Khai-dazaar,’ he said, thoughts awash with the possibilities.
The webway pocket realm was initially bewildering. Every street was home to crafty-eyed hawkers selling wares ranging from cloaks and robes to ancient texts and supposed artefacts of the old eldar empire. Far from the polite traders on the Boulevard of Split Moons, these eldar haggled and competed, vying for the attention and patronage of visitors and each other. There seemed to be as many deals being struck between the merchants as with the other eldar who slowly wound their way between the stalls.
The goods put any craftworld trader to shame. Fine art pieces, some of them genuinely ancient, sat alongside processed ship stores. Exotic animals – mammalian, reptile, avian and indeterminate – lay in cages or blinkered or leashed, howling, yammering and hooting, while others watched the procession of potential owners with placid, intelligent eyes. Materials of every weave and colour and design were on show, together with jewellery of precious metals and ghost stone and cinderclay and shaped mineral; gems and semi-precious stones of every hue and shape, both natural and fashioned; statuettes and busts, ceramic tiles and beaten metal dishes. Aradryan saw treatises of philosophers next to popular poetry collections and political tracts; artists painting flattering portraits and not-so-flattering caricatures; plants and grasses, blossoms and bulbs, buds and petals from hundreds of worlds and craftworlds; animal hides and furs, treated skins and preserved horns, ground bones and polished skulls.
The open-fronted establishments behind the stalls were more reminiscent of the Bridge of Yearning Sorrows than anywhere else. Keeping close to Athelennil, who seemed to have a particular destination in mind, Aradryan passed narcotics dens and drinking houses, lyrical recitals and debating chambers, tattooists and bodypainters, dreamers and singers, ghost stone sculptors and flesh designers. The latter were a Commorraghan influence, offering their services for free in exchange for the opportunity to turn living eldar into works of art. Aradryan saw one old female wearing a sash marked by the runes of Biel-Tan sitting in a chair while a skeletal flesh designer fused bright blue feathers into her scalp, replacing her hair with an extravagant crest. Next to the eldar was an infant male, her son most likely, the skin of his exposed arms being redrafted with mottled snake scales.
‘Not there,’ said Athelennil, dragging Aradryan by the arm. ‘If that is something you are interested in, I know a far more accomplished fleshworker over in the Crimson Galleries.’
‘Not just now,’ said Aradryan, pulling his eyes away from the bizarre vision, nose wrinkled in distaste.
‘There is nothing wrong with expressing yourself through a little body modification,’ said Athelennil. She waggled the fingers of her free hand in Aradryan’s face. ‘I had talons for a few passes, if you can believe that.’
‘Whatever for?’ asked Aradryan, appalled rather than amused by the idea. ‘And is that not very impractical?’
‘I did not have them for anything,’ said Athelennil. ‘I had them because I could. Also, my consort at the time rather liked a little scratching in his lovemaking.’
‘I really did not need to know that.’ Looking around, Aradryan felt a twinge of concern. The contrast between Khai-dazaar and Eileniliesh was stark. He could see the Exodites’ point of view; this was just the sort of behaviour that could lead to obsession and depravity.
‘Do not be prudish,’ warned Athelennil, mistaking his expression of apprehension for disgust. ‘It is not for you to judge what others do with their lives.’
‘It is just a shock, that is all,’ said Aradryan, forcing a smile. He pulled Athelennil closer. ‘I am still adjusting to life away from the Path. Does it not worry you? How do you maintain perspective and control?’
They continued along the street, passing underneath gaudy bunting strung between the balconies of the upper storeys. Aradryan swerved to avoid two scantily clad eldar in a heated discussion, whose melodramatic gesticulations were a hazard to those trying to pass too close. His last moment course correction forced Athelennil to duck beneath a low hanging garland of purple and white flowers.
‘Control is definitely an area you need to work on,’ she laughed, pushing Aradryan in retaliation for his bump. She stopped, her smile fading. ‘The Path deludes us, teaching that we must curb our natural enthusiasm, blind our senses to the reality of our lives. To be outcast and wander from the Path is to accept yourself and to be free from the tyranny of self-perfection. The founders of the Path laid down an ideal, but it has become more than a goal to strive for – it has become a prison for our spirits.’
‘The tales of the Fall, of the coming of the Great Enemy, are not simple propaganda,’ replied Aradryan, with more vehemence
than he expected. Though the prospect of a post-life existence in an infinity circuit depressed him, the thought of being consumed by She Who Thirsts was a genuine terror. His recent brush with indulgence during the fighting at Hirith-Hreslain had been a timely warning. ‘We were possessed by our passions and it led to the destruction of our civilisation. Can we truly trust ourselves not to repeat the past?’
‘Abstinence is a false philosophy, no better than the puritanical beliefs of the Exodites,’ argued Athelennil. At Aradryan’s nod the two of them continued on their way, side-by-side but not touching each other. ‘With every generation, more become trapped. The society of the craftworlds survives because of those who fail on the Path. Seers, and exarchs, and Waywardens, all of them needed to pass on the lessons that they failed to learn. When does self-deprivation become an obsession in its own right? Must we wait until there are only teachers left and no pupils before we realise that the Path condemns us to stasis? It grants us no future.’
Aradryan was taken aback by the passion of Athelennil’s argument. He had never asked why she had decided to become outcast, and she had not volunteered the information. Now was not the time to inquire, he sensed, as Athelennil gestured for the pair to turn right into an alley lit by strings of blue and green parchment lanterns. Something bounded across in front of them: a small, white-furred primate of a species Aradryan had not encountered before. It leapt up onto one of the lantern ropes and swung away, moments before an eldar child came sprinting after it, shouting curses.
Stooping beneath the lamplines, Aradryan found himself coming out into a walled courtyard where glowing coal braziers and chairs of woven reed were arranged around a central fountain. Two eldar, garbed head to foot in heavy robes of scarlet, their faces and heads covered with scarves of the same, stood beside a doorway. The lounge area was otherwise empty. Ruddy light glowed through a slit window in the door between the two eldar, but the wall in which it was set was otherwise blank white.
‘The Passage of Sunken Fears,’ declared Athelennil. ‘Let us not go in straight away.’
She reclined on one of the benches, close to the fountain. Aradryan lay down near to her, finding that the light sprinkling of water combined pleasantly with the ambient heat of the braziers. The coals smoked with sweet-smelling incense, while the water that fell on his lips had a tang of salt. He closed his eyes, trying to relax. He wore his ranger bodysuit, finding it more comfortable and practical than his old clothes, and the arms and legs shrank away from his skin to create a vest-like costume, responding to his desire to feel the heat and water on his limbs.
‘The mistake of the Path is that it enables those upon it to dwell too long upon one aspect of themselves,’ said Athelennil. Her quiet voice was hard to hear over the splashing of the fountain, and Aradryan realised he had quickly been slipping into a semi- slumber. He opened his eyes, experiencing a moment of vertigo as he stared up at Khai-dazaar’s artificial sun, surrounded by a corona of jagged building peaks and curving skywalks.
‘What is to stop the same happening to an outcast?’ said Aradryan, pushing himself up on one elbow.
‘The galaxy itself,’ replied Athelennil. ‘Away from the security and sanctity of the craftworlds is a dangerous, testing place. There can be little indulgence when you have to keep your eyes and ears open.’
‘You are mistaken,’ said Aradryan. ‘I could slip into a memedream here and spend my life indulging in fantasy and phantasm. What is to stop me?’
‘Thirst and hunger, for a start. You think that the people here will give you food and drink out of the goodness of their hearts? There is nobody on the Path of the Creator, none treading the Path of Service to bring it to your lap. And there are some very unsavoury types here. If you want to dream, you best not do it without someone to stand guard over you, unless you want to awake in the fleshpits or fighting arenas of Commorragh. Or somewhere worse.’
‘I see what you mean...’ said Aradryan, casting an eye towards the pair of eldar standing as sentries by the doorway.
‘Them?’ Athelennil laughed, cocking her head to look at the silent guardians. ‘They would never harm us.’
‘Why are we here?’ asked Aradryan. ‘Who are they?’
‘We are here to see Estrathain Unair, to see if a Harlequin troupe is currently in Khai-dazaar. They are the door wardens, who are here to greet visitors and inquire as to their purpose in coming.’
‘Did you send word already?’
‘That was not necessary,’ said Athelennil. ‘Estrathain knew my intent as soon as we arrived.’
‘Indeed I did.’
Aradryan sat up abruptly as three figures stepped out of the doorway, garbed in the same all-enclosing clothes as the door wardens. They had spoken in unison, and as the trio advanced towards the fountain Aradryan noticed that they did so in step with each other.
‘I am Estrathain Unair, mediator of Khai-dazaar.’ The three figures stopped just short of Aradryan and raised their right hands, palms outwards and thumbs folded in greeting. The way that all three eldar spoke together was disconcerting, their voices exactly the same as each other. ‘You must be very confused, Aradryan. Please come inside, have refreshments and allow me to explain.’
‘Of course, I am your guest,’ said Aradryan. He watched the red-swathed figures closely, noticing that there was something disturbing about their eyes. The ranger saw himself reflected in the black orbs and realised he was looking into gemstones, not organic visual organs.
‘Please do not be disturbed by my kami, they cannot harm you,’ said Estrathain, the three figures parting, hands directing Aradryan and Athelennil towards the now-open archway.
Beyond the plain wall was a short corridor, which led into another open space, almost exactly like the first, except that the incense on the braziers was more delicate and fruity, and the water that splashed from the fountain a pale shade of pink. There were seven identical arched doorways leading from the courtyard, and two more of the red-robed ‘kami’. One of the doors opened and a third kami came into view, holding a tray on which was a pitcher of dark green liquid and two goblets, set beside a small platter holding a variety of confectionary treats.
‘Welcome to Khai-dazaar, my home,’ said Estrathain. Only one of the kami spoke, as it sat down and gestured for the rangers to do the same, voice slightly muffled by its scarf.
‘Are you the real Estrathain?’ asked Aradryan. He peered under the headscarf and saw the same glimmering lenses as before.
‘We are all the ‘real’ Estrathain,’ said all of the constructs in unison. The single kami that had sat continued on its own. ‘Only one of us will speak, to avoid further confusion. As I said earlier, I am the mediator of Khai-dazaar, and I know of your intent to dare the secrets of the crone worlds.’
‘Do you rule Khai-dazaar?’ asked Aradryan. He plucked a goblet from the tray held by the motionless kami. ‘Do we have to seek your permission or make tribute?’
‘You mistake me for a Commorraghan overlord, Aradryan,’ said Estrathain. ‘I am no archon, be assured. As it appears that Athelennil has not furnished you with the nature of my existence, with her permission I shall digress from the immediate matter to enlighten you.’
All six kami looked at Athelennil, who laughed and nodded.
‘Of course, please tell Aradryan your story,’ she said. ‘I forget how polite you always are.’
‘Thank you,’ said Estrathain, the attention of the kami returning to Aradryan. ‘I do not rule Khai-dazaar. No individual or group has control of Khai-dazaar, and while I exist none ever shall. I founded this place, you see, and intended it to be a coming together of our disparate kindreds. Harlequins and folks of the craftworlds, Commorraghans and Exodites. Of course, the Exodites never came, but I invited them.’
The kami leaned back, its scarf slipping a little to reveal a plainly featured face fashioned from an off-white psycho-plastic. As Estrathain continued, Aradryan realised what had alerted him earlier to the unnatural nature of the
kami: their mouths and eyes did not move when they spoke. In fact, their faces were simply masks, close approximations of an eldar visage but immobile.
‘I was no bonesinger, and so my fledgling realm of equality and peace had no matrix, no equivalent to an infinity circuit. Instead, I possessed a considerable psychic talent of my own, furnished by a lengthy walk upon the Path of the Seer before I dispossessed myself from Ulthwé. I became the spine, the nervous system of Khai-dazaar, in a manner of speaking, putting myself at the service of those who wished to communicate, create and explore.’
‘So you are somewhere else, controlling these mannequins?’ said Aradryan. ‘A very good way to hide from those who might want to exert influence over you. It sounds as if you are powerful here, I would not condemn your paranoia.’
‘That is amusing,’ said Estrathain, raising a hand in demonstration. ‘If the kami could laugh, I would. Alas, they are not capable. You must understand something about the nature of what we are. Those who have been seers understand the separation of mind, thought and form. Normally all are encompassed together, but not always so.’
The kami sat forwards and pointed a scarlet-gloved finger at Aradryan’s chest, indicating his waystone.
‘When your body is no more, your mind and thought persist,’ Estrathain explained. ‘Very shortly after, thought also dissipates, for it requires the physical form to operate. This leaves only the pure mind, the essence of each of us. It is our spirit, if you would accept such a term. It is mind alone that transfers to the infinity circuit of a craftworld. If given form again, the mind can give rise to thought once more, though often in limited fashion and of a temporary nature.’
‘Of course,’ said Aradryan. ‘That form might be a starship or a skycutter, or a wraith-construct. Did you die, then? Is that why you have several forms?’
‘I did not die, I was in the prime of my life when I became the kami.’
The puppet-thing swung its legs onto the couch and leaned back, hands behind its head. It seemed such a natural movement, but the unfeeling eyes and unmoving features twisted the familiarity into something much more disturbing. The other kami, except for the one that was standing at Aradryan’s side holding the drinks tray, had departed; moving off on their other business, Aradryan assumed.
