Eleven thrones were arrayed around the circumference of a room rounded and outfitted to resemble the Yotan in miniature. A clear glass dome capped it, through which the pointed attic of the tower’s conical roof was visible. Ten of the thrones were occupied by man-sized statues of the gods. The eleventh, carved from dark stone and decorated with vile scenes worthy of the original was empty. This was throne of the Dark Lady—Guis’s and the duke’s mistress.
Insolently, the Darkling settled Guis Kressind into the empty throne, and waited.
Several hours passed before Guis heard the Infernal Duke climbing the stairs. The footsteps slowed as the duke approached the door—Guis had left it deliberately ajar. He imagined what was going through the duke’s mind. Had his sole servant, Markos, finally betrayed him? Was it his latest plaything going where she shouldn’t? Guis stifled a laugh at the thoughts racing round the duke’s cavernous mind.
The door opened silently. The duke’s massive shoulders and horns were silhouetted in the aperture.
“Hello, your grace,” said Guis.
“Who are you? What are you doing in here? How did you come in?” said the duke in a low and dangerous voice. He bullied his way through the door, as if it must be shoved aside to admit him. Guis saw his anger rise as red wings from his shoulders, threatening as a snake’s spreading hood.
“Don’t you recognise me, your grace? Your senses have dulled.” Guis sniffed. “But this world is not what it was. It has taken on the appurtenances of solidity so much that little difference remains between the World of Will and the World of Form.”
“It is in the nature of extremes to equalise, entropy is inherent to life,” said the duke. He stepped nearer. “It is you,” he said. He drew back. “How do you come here?”
“How else? Your magic is strong, I could not breach it. Fortunately for me, the door was open,” lied Guis. “I would be more careful of your choice of companion in future, duke. Or else cease allowing your harlots access to your secret chambers by way of testing them. Either way, your precious human failed. They do not listen, and will betray you in the end.”
The look of fury that crossed the duke’s face gratified the Darkling greatly.
“Get out of here, thing,” he said.
“Thing no longer. I have a name,” Guis said proudly. “A name to go with my form.”
“You were never of a degree to have true form,” said the duke.
“Not true. We all were, once. You will be surprised what we have learnt on the other side of death’s gates.”
“Once was a long time ago,” said the duke. “What do you call yourself?”
“My name is Guis Kressind.”
“I see,” said the duke. “Guis. Get out of the mistress’s throne. You commit blasphemy.”
Guis lifted his arms and looked at the chair he sat in. “How can I commit blasphemy? There are no gods in this world. And there has been no news of the Dark Lady since our expulsion.”
“How have you come back? No riddles. I have no patience.” The duke was agitated at this news, and Guis found that hilarious.
He smirked as he replied. “The Gates of the World are leaking. The wards the Morfaan put in place to close the ways are dying. The World of Will gives up its last claims to the name. Its essence becomes equal parts form and will. The creatures that infest this world draw too much on the spirit of the Earth, forcing it from potential to actual. Therefore there is insufficient magic in the aether left to hold the gates closed. Their opening will not occur for some years, but a way can be forced for the first time in eight millennia. I was able to come through by manipulating this creature.” He gestured at his body. “He has some power of his own. It worked against him. Rather ironic.”
The duke blew out a breath and shook his horns, looking for all the world like a dracon-bull twitching flies from its muzzle. “If this is true, the gates will collapse moments after they are opened. You will not return, and I will be left here alone forever,” said the duke.
“You know, I never understood how it is that you escaped. Old Eliturion, we all know why he remained. There are the handful of other, lesser things that clung on when Res Iapetus lost his stomach for the hunt. But you? You were here in the city when the expulsion began. I never had you for a traitor, or thought you might come to an accommodation with the mortals for your own gain. You were a loyal servant of our Dark Lady. Why are you here, while I and every other servant of the gods faces dissolution in the wastes of the formless?”
“I do not know,” said the Infernal Duke. He lowered his head.
Guis’s stolen face lit up impishly. He wagged a finger. “Ah-ah, I think you do, your grace. I think you really do.”
“I do not,” the duke said fiercely. “I was in the city, visiting with the matriarch of the Dark Temple.”
“Visiting? You have become coy,” Guis raised an eyebrow.
“We had our duties,” said the duke. “I was in her bed when I saw the Godhome slide out of the sky and come to rest with its rim upon the hills of the Royal Park. In clarity I felt the removal of our fellows from this world. I left, and waited upon the Avenue of Triumphs for Iapetus to visit my own extinction on me. I had no chance of defeating him, but I wished to make account of myself. I was ready to fight him. He never came. Instead I witnessed him depart the Godhome to begin his purge of the lesser Y Dvar.”
“You should not use that name,” tutted Guis.
“And why not? What are we but slaves to mankind’s fancy if we forget what we really are? Gods! We fool ourselves.”
“Fools or not, we are something different now.” Guis sat back in the throne. “The gates will not collapse, not for a while. There is enough Will left in those that remain. Enough to allow the gods to return.”
“And if we might reestablish ourselves here, will not the Draathis attempt a resolution of their war? The World of Form comes closest next year. The last two occasions have seen them visit ruination on the Earth.”
“They mass,” said Guis. “Another shadow slipped into their world before my arrival here: a spy is in the world. The Draathis have anticipated this weakening. They will be able to use the gates, and will fall on this world with their full number. Not invasion, but migration. They see this world as their birthright.”
“The people here are not ready for it,” said the duke. “The Morfaan barely exiled them, their last incursion was a lesser thing. Both attacks destroyed civilisations.”
Guis grinned. “I know, marvellous isn’t it? There is a small place where the actual Guis Kressind clings on, buried deep in the extensive architecture of the human brain, an oubliette of the subconscious. He knows what I know, and grows frantic, howling and crying for release. The Draathis’s hatred of the Morfaan and all their beasts is unbounded. They will exterminate and take their place as overlords of the worlds of Form and Will both. Mankind’s tenure here is over.”
“We should warn them. We will die without them,” said the duke.
Guis pulled a disgusted face. “You have grown weak. Where is the cruel lord of hell I once knew? What is this that you do here, spanking girls? Ritualised cruelty you are desperate for them to enjoy? In ages gone you would have ravished them then torn them apart to feast upon their flesh before their dying eyes.”
“I am not who I was. That was not what I wished to be.”
“We are none of us how we wish to be. We are what we were made to be. Once the vermin are removed, we shall be free of the forms they pushed onto us. Do you not see, these people that you wish to defend are the ones who have made you? Hate them. Then you might return to purity of Will, and we may restore the creation gifted us. The Draathis will not stand before us.”
The duke shook his head. “There is no return. We are tainted, changed as the twin worlds are changed. Form and Will cannot remain strangers forever, what has been altered cannot be put back. We are, as you say, what we are.”
“Well then. You will not help them. That is the will of Omnus.”
<
br /> “And the Y Dvar of the other paths. What of them?”
Guis laughed. “Now to speak of slavery, look to them! Slaves of man and slaves to themselves. They will perish at the hands of their children. We are the ones who preserve the legacy of the creator. Within us alone remains the seed of his intent. Humanity should never have been brought here. They are weeds in a garden. Let the Draathis reap them. Once the Draathis are done, we shall expunge their taint. Then we might do away with the sorry developments of these last aeons, and set things aright.”
“Why should others suffer,” said the duke, “when it is the Y Dvar who are to blame for squandering the creator’s gift?”
“You and I are no longer Y Dvar. That name means nothing.” He leaned forward. “You and I are the servants of the gods of this world. War is coming, and our masters are returned for vengeance. You should remember whose side you are on.”
Guis slipped out of the throne. “Well, it was so lovely to catch up with you. The last two hundred years have just flown by.” He rubbed his hands together. “I must admit, I can see why you enjoy living here down among them. I intend to go out now and enjoy the flesh of this being a little more, before it and all like it are rendered into dust. I’ll show myself out.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Lavinia
“UP UP UP! Get up you lazy little bastards! Come on! Work’s waiting. Get up, get up get up!”
Desperately, Lavinia clung to the last shreds of her dreams, but they split and fled, skittish as ghosts, from the angry voice of the overseer. “Come on little Mohaci girl, get up!” Her bed shook as it was kicked. The woman was not cruel, but she was often tired, and short of time, and that made her angry and quick with her whip. Lavinia caressed the letter from Tuvacs she kept under her pillow. The paper had become smooth as velvet she had stroked it so many times. She could still make out the words, but they became fainter, and she tried to stop touching it, but there, in the dark, chilly dormitory of the Lemio Clothing and Shoddy Factory, it was a reminder that there was someone out there that loved her.
She grimaced as she put out her legs from under the thin blanket. Cold. That was how every day started, with the cold, and that was how it ended. She slept in her clothes at night, and it was still not enough. Her garments had become so ragged and dirty from constant wear she should have been ashamed of them, but the cold drove all that away. Shame had come to seem such a trifle in the face of the chill of the isles. She was never warm in Karsa. When the sun rarely shone it soothed the skin, but it did not dry the damp from her bones. Winter at home might have been hard, but summer was glorious, hot and dry with long days that lasted the night through. In Karsa City it rained. When it wasn’t raining the sky was often dim with thick brown fog that burned her throat and made her eyes water. When the fog had gone they had all cheered. None of them got to enjoy the few days of sunlight that came afterwards.
She hated Karsa City. Sometimes she thought she hated Tuvacs for leaving her there. That frightened her. If she hated her brother, she had nothing left in all the world.
The children were subdued. They did not chatter or laugh. Overseer Agna did not take kindly to unnecessary noise. What sound there was had a smooth feeling to it, like she was underwater all the time. Noise did not stick in her ears. More and more she had to ask that people repeat themselves, although she dared not ask Agna because she would think her stupid. Frequently she misheard, and she thought Lavinia was stupid anyway. Lavinia’s ears hurt whenever she went into the lower workshop, and because she was good at loading the rovings into the machines she was in there often. The pain afterwards lasted all night.
“Didn’t you hear me, lazy little Mohaci? Get up!”
“Sorry goodwife Agna. I will be quicker,” said Lavinia. She ducked her head respectfully, made herself small, doing nothing to set off the woman’s temper.
“Hmm,” she tapped her whip on her leg. “See to it you are. Time is money, and it costs keep you urchins fed.”
A half-tun of freezing water was set out for the children to wash in. Many of them splashed on the least amount, but Lavinia took her time to wash herself properly. She only wished she could clean her clothes too. She had two dresses which she wore, one on top of the other, and only one pair of wool leggings. It was all too small for her. This last year she had grown a few inches, and her skirts were rising past her knees. When the director brought the orphanage’s benefactors around there he lamented the lack of funds to buy better clothes. Promises were often given by the horrified goodfellows and their ladies. If the money arrived, the children gained nothing from it.
Two trestles were set out at the end of the room by the older children, well on their way to becoming as mean and empty as Agna. Others put wooden trays mounded with stale black bread on the board, and small, greasy bowls.
Someone tapped her shoulder; Marta, a girl not much older than Lavinia. Eleven or twelve perhaps.
“It’s sunny!” said Marta.
“Sorry?” said Lavinia.
“Sunny!” said the other girl. Lavinia followed her pointing finger through the open doorway, to where the sun shone through the dirty glass of the bridge.
“Quiet back there!” shouted Agna.
Lavinia wanted to leave the line and stand in the light, let it warm her. But she dared not. She tried to stop her teeth from chattering. Boys behind the table slopped weak milk soup into the bowls. The food was unappetising, but the children ate it ravenously anyway. They slurped and gulped, gobbling their gruel down, watching each other shiftily in case someone attempted to take their ration. Sharp elbows jutted as they hunched over the soup, ribs showing in skinny chests. They would not eat again until nightfall.
They were taken downstairs to the picking floor. The children lined up for roll call in sorry lines, not one of them speaking. Agna read out the names of them all, despondent voices answered. After calling the name, Agna assigned the children a task.
“Gerrion,” Agna said.
“Here.”
“Picking floor,” Agna said.
“Marta.”
“Here.”
“Carding floor,” Agna said.
Lavinia hoped that she would not be sent down into the spinning room again. She closed her eyes and clenched her fists, trying to will the world to be the way she wanted it, like a mage. The stories Tuvacs and Tuparrillio had told them back in Mohacs had been magical, simple, populated by men and women who could change the world if they did not like it. Stories made sense of her life, and imbued their dreary existence as gleaners with wonder and hope. She was reluctant to remember the stories now. If being a gleaner had seemed hard, this was far worse. The stories reminded her of better times, and they lied. The truth was much harder than the stories promised. Often she wondered if this awful life was worth her journey to Karsa. The long trek across Ruthnia, the waiting in Macer Lesser for a train to smuggle themselves aboard, living in filth. People came from all over Ruthnia to the isles, drawn in by the new industries’ rapacious appetite for labour. Her brother had seen a possibility of work, of safety from the criminals running the gleaning gangs in Mohacs-Gravo’s filthy canyons. Like the stories, he had promised so much. Now she was alone, cold and hungry.
“Lavinia! Lavinia!” shouted Agna. Her voice sounded far away. Lavinia opened her eyes in time to see Agna draw back her hand and strike her across the cheek. A hot iron flavour filled her mouth.
“Are you here girl? Stop your daydreaming, there is work to be done!”
Lavinia swallowed a mouthful of blood. It made her feel sick. “Here goodwife.”
“Speak up quicker next time! Time costs!” She picked up her clipboard from where it hung off her belt on a string, and ticked her name. “Spinning room,” she said.
“Yes goodwife,” said Lavinia miserably. She probed the front of her mouth with her tongue. Her teeth had bitten into the inside of her lip.
Goodwife Agna finished her reading of names and assigning of jobs. Lavinia struggl
ed to hear her murmuring.
“To your work, all of you! You have to work harder, do you understand me?” Many of the children were immigrants to Karsa, and did not speak the language well. Goodwife Agna spoke to them all as if they were mentally deficient, loudly and slowly, aiding their understanding with the whip. “You are not productive enough. You cost Goodfellow Mroten Grostiman money. Work harder, or you will be on the street.”
“Yes Goodwife Agna,” the children chorused. The same threat, every day. Maybe it was true, maybe they would go onto the street. Lavinia was numb to it. Some of the children stayed on the picking floor, dragging rags out of the sacks by their benches before wearily taking their seats. The rest filed out in two silent, single lines. One line peeled off at the next floor, into the carding room. The final flight of stairs beckoned Lavinia. The treads rumbled under her feet as the machines started up, welcoming her in. She felt as if she were descending into the first of the hundred hells.
The noise of one machine alone was bearable. The rattle of bobbins on their spindles and the click-clack of the guiding arms was almost soothing, but dozens of them together became a torture. The rattling settled into the bones, engulfing the pounding of her heart. The trembling floor set up a pain in her joints, like a dozen tiny hammers chipped away at the knuckles. Below notice at first, but with persistence insufferable. When she left the room at night and the drive shafts span down, she could still hear the bobbins rattling, still feel the thrum of the machines in the soles of her feet and her legs.
Lavinia attended one of the spinners. An older boy named Karll watched the arms that stretched the rovings out and twisted them into thread, winding them finally onto the infernal bobbins. Lavinia’s job was to watch the rovings as they unwound from broad spools. If they were not turned properly in the spooling room, they snagged. If they had not been picked from the card and rolled correctly, they broke. The rovings unwound, their thick twists shifting back and forth across their spools like long anguillons dancing in the water. They passed through pegged teeth on the weaving frame, and there they might also snag, or snag then break. Being made from unpicked cloth, the rovings were of poorer quality than fresh fibres, and snagging and breaking were common happenstances. If anything went wrong, then Lavinia must work quickly to set it right, or risk a beating come the evening. They were rarely hit during working hours, because it slowed production. The lashes the children were to receive at close of day were chalked up on a large board at the front of the room so that they might better anticipate them. Goodwife Anga stood close by the board, watching for infractions. They all dreaded the production of the chalk.
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