by Matthew Ward
The first kraikon started forward in a crackle of magic. The pitch of the crowd changed from outrage to panic. He’d been wrong. The Southshires were ready. And so was he.
It was only then that Josiri realised his hands no longer shook. With a nod that was equal parts surprise and satisfaction, he passed through into the shelter of the drawing room.
“What have you done?” Makrov had to shout to be heard over the roar of the crowd. He flinched as a stone spanged off a window frame. “What have you done?”
“What you asked,” said Josiri. “I burned your damn painting.”
Eight
Viktor closed his eyes and blotted out the grime-tinged walls. He propped his elbows against the railing and let the suffocating air wash over him. The sharp, breath-stealing tang of molten metal. The dry heat in his lungs. The prickle of sweat. They evoked memories of childhood long past and held the cold of his shadow at bay.
Pulleys creaked. Viktor leaned out over the gantry’s edge. A kraikon’s towering form emerged from the seething pool.
Forging constructs was a volatile art, even for those who commanded a glint of the magic that was Lumestra’s light.
The proctors who fashioned the creatures spoke of a process more instinct than rational endeavour, with Lumestra’s eternal light yearning to be born anew into ephemeral form. At least, until the bronze shell was breached, and the light seeped away, leaving the metal cold and still once more. Whether that was a form of death, or no less sorrowful than a leaping flame, Viktor wasn’t sure. But in the foundry, all constructs were named as diligently as all newborns, in defiance of the fact that those names were seldom used elsewhere.
Streaks of liquid bronze ran like livid wounds through a skin of older, darker metal. The figure swayed as it was borne away into the gloom. Stray magic crackled from empty eyes and arced about rattling chains. The labours of the treadwheel horses set the chainway rattling, offering up another lifeless kraikon husk to the molten pool.
Scuffed footfalls crept along the gantry to Viktor’s right.
“Let me guess. You’ve quarrelled with your father again.”
As ever, Elzar’s voice held a hint of mockery.
Viktor growled, and stared down at the burbling, seething metal. “It’s that obvious?”
“You’re here, aren’t you?”
Viktor grunted. The foundry had been his refuge since he’d been a boy. He’d been desperate, searching for a place to hide in the aftermath of his shadow’s first flaring. And the foundry had . . . called to him, in sensations he’d never been able to describe. As if his magic had been drawn to that practised within, different though it was.
Of course, the building had been cold and dark then. Dark enough to lose the vranakin footpads in the maze of hoppers, gantries and workshops. Somewhere along the line, he’d fallen asleep, and the opportunistic robbers had wearied of the chase. Hours later Viktor had woken to the hiss of steam, and Elzar’s hand upon his shoulder.
Viktor had pled ignorance of the night’s events, for he’d barely understood them himself. He’d been too young to know of the vranakin – the crow-brethren, as they were named in less formal language – as anything other than legend. Thieves he knew of, certainly; a starving underclass bred wickedness and desperation.
But thieves cloaked in shadow? Who walked the mist-wreathed paths of Otherworld, and offered tribute to the Raven, the God of the Dead? His mother had shielded him from these things. Perhaps too well. Or perhaps Alika Akadra had never known herself, or not believed. Otherwise, she’d never have strayed so close to where Dregmeet’s sunken streets bordered the western docks – let alone do so merely to avoid returning home after the hour appointed by an impatient husband.
When tears at last ebbed, Elzar had carried Viktor home to a house ever after emptied of his mother’s smile and ready laughter. There was only the memory of how she’d fought to save him from the vranakin’s clutches, and the ripper’s grin as the knife had opened her throat. Her body was never recovered, but such events were wholly unremarkable. Hunger was rife in Dregmeet, and not all cravings belonged to men.
The elder Akadra, too lost in the tragedy of his wife’s death – a tragedy he had contributed to, in small part – had taken little interest in his son’s grief, and filled his days with tutors. But at night, Viktor had slipped away to the foundry, where Elzar taught him secrets of fire and forge. Of the light that was life, and the discipline by which the proctors sought to wield it. And he spoke of other things besides . . .
Thirty years had slid by since. Long enough for Elzar Ilnarov to earn the robes of high proctor – which he never wore – and be granted comfortable chambers in the guild house on the other side of the docks – which he seldom visited. He’d changed little with advancing years. A little wirier, perhaps, but the salt-and-pepper stubble and wrinkled face still matched Viktor’s earliest memory.
“I lost control today, in the Council chamber.”
“Magic wants to be used,” said Elzar. “Always has, always will.”
“I don’t want to use it.”
And he hadn’t. Not since that squalid duel with Katya Trelan. And never with the wild abandon of its first manifestation. Then, it had torn two of the crow-brethren’s footpads apart. A third had clawed out his own eyes in terror. At the time, Viktor hadn’t realised the billowing shadow was his own doing. He’d believed it yet another horror come to claim him. And so he’d run.
“You don’t get a choice. It chose you.”
“Then I wish it had chosen someone else.”
“And if it had? You’d have died alongside your mother.” Elzar chuckled under his breath. “Who’d play hands of jando with this lonely old man? Who’d heed his complaints about callow youngsters sent to do skilled work?”
“It’s that bad?” asked Viktor.
“Tailinn has a mild glimmering of talent, and she’s devoted to our work. The rest?” He snorted. “Dull brats sheltering from military commission. They can’t even follow instruction. They always know best. I’m only a humble proctor. My opinion doesn’t count.”
A glimmering of talent. Elzar’s usual guarded understatement – a coded admission that magic had chosen Tailinn as well. A few years younger than Viktor, she’d been as much a part of the foundry as its chainways for as long as he could recall, a keen and attentive student of the high proctor’s teachings.
That Tailinn wielded magic openly meant that her gift, like Elzar’s, was radiant. Only magic bright with Lumestra’s gift was deemed hale, and thus permitted by religious and lawful decree. It could be bent to the creation of simarka and kraikon without shame. It gave fuel to the firestone lanterns that lit Tressia even in the deepest dark. She’d nothing to hide, and was valued for it.
Viktor’s shadow was different in nature, abhorred as were all magics of uncertain provenance. And just because there’d been no burning in a decade didn’t mean tinder couldn’t be found. Without Elzar’s lessons in control, without the honing of willpower that kept the shadow caged, Viktor would have ended his days on a witch’s pyre long ago. Viktor had often wondered just how his father would react if the truth came to light.
Elzar set his back to the rail and folded his arms. “But you’re not here to listen to my problems. The Southshires?”
“You’ve heard about that?”
He chuckled. “I hear more than most. You think the requisition of four cohorts doesn’t prick up my ears? All bound for the Ravonn. Not a one headed south.”
“The Council can’t let go of the past.”
Elzar fished a lump of clinker from his overalls and tossed it from hand to hand. Sunlight crackled in its wake. “Few can. We’re all of us forged in the crucible of our yesterdays.”
“I’m in no mood for philosophy.”
“Then you chose a poor shoulder to cry on.” Elzar grinned. “What will you do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Hah!” The clinker slapped into Elzar’s palm and vanished in
to his pocket once more. “The great Viktor Akadra, rudderless on an ocean of possibility.”
“The very opposite. The Council have spoken. I have no choice.”
“Are you certain of that? Or have you merely blinded yourself to the alternatives?”
“What?” said Viktor. “I should storm back in there, cut them all down? Seize power?”
“Setting aside the issue of surviving the aftermath . . .” Elzar cleared his throat. “You could do that? To your own father?”
Viktor stared moodily into the gloom. “There are days where I wonder if that might be for the best.”
“You are in a bleak mood. Have I anything to fear?”
Viktor blinked in surprise and clasped Elzar’s shoulder. “No. Never.”
“Never is a long time.”
“Not as long as a council meeting.”
The chainway rattled to new life, bearing a fresh kraikon to the pool. The giant’s chest was almost completely torn away, along with much of its right shoulder. A lattice of metal rods bound the remains together – a crude approximation of the surviving musculature.
“What happened?”
Elzar shrugged. “A section of harbour wall collapsed, took that poor lump with it. He’s lost his looks for ever. Tell me, why did you accept the invitation to join the Council?”
“Why do you ask questions to which you already know the answer? Because I thought I could change things. But the Council doesn’t change. The Republic doesn’t change.”
“And aren’t you as bad, if you accede to their decision?”
“You do want me to kill them.”
Elzar tutted. “Heavens, no. Think of the mess. But has it occurred to you that you’re just as hidebound as your father?”
“Choose your next words very carefully,” Viktor growled.
“I always do. One thing you and your father have in common is that deep down, you think of the Southshires as a land apart. For all your aspirations – noble as they are – you see them as conquered enemy, not estranged kin.”
Viktor took a deep breath and reminded himself that Elzar was trying to help. “Not so.”
“If all Tressia were overcome, and the Hadari at the gates, what would you do?”
“I’d never allow the circumstance to arise.”
“Humour me.” Elzar spread his hands, as if unfolding a vista. “The shire lands are charnel-fields. They overflow with the bloody ruin of our armies. You’ve no soldiers to call upon, and a city full of frightened citizens at your back. What do you do?”
“I offer terms. Surrender for survival.”
“They’re rejected.” He chuckled. “Apparently, you once said something unforgivable about the Emperor’s favourite pig. Your only choices are victory or death.”
“Then I rally the citizens. Lead them in their own defence . . .” Viktor tailed off. Their own defence. Was it that simple? “The Council would never allow it.”
“You need an army. The Council won’t grant you theirs. So you need another.”
“Just like that?”
“Of course not. Nothing worthwhile is ever easy.”
“They won’t allow it,” Viktor repeated. “They’re too afraid of another revolt.”
“Then you need to take that fear away, or perhaps replace it.”
Viktor scowled. “How?”
Elzar grinned. “That’s up to you.”
The coach rumbled to a halt in a crunch of gravel. Firestone lanterns cast flickering shadows across Freemont’s archway. They made the stone dragon of the Kiradin escutcheon appear restless and watchful in the gloom. Beyond, ornamental trees swayed in the unseasonal wind that swept the raucous carousing of drunks up from the dockside. The wealthy could wall off their estates and have hearthguard clear the neighbouring streets, but the wind blew where it wished.
“You’re certain you want to be part of this?” asked Viktor.
Malachi straightened his cravat. “We’ve been over this. You’ll need my support. It’s a good proposal. And they’ve no great love for me. If you’re trying to spare my reputation, don’t bother.”
Viktor nodded, uncertain of what to say. He’d never had a knack for making friends, and so he valued those few he possessed all the higher. But expressing as much came hard. Even to those he’d known all his life. So instead, he grasped the door handle, stepped out into the night, and stalked away up the path.
It was no surprise to see a second coach on the driveway, liveried in black and its doors blazoned with a stylised silver swan. Just as predictable were the green-garbed hearthguards standing in shadow beneath the archway. In a city as crowded as Tressia, it took more than expansive grounds to guarantee privacy.
Malachi joined Viktor on the steps with wind-stung cheeks and a catch to his breathing. “There you go, leaving me behind. We don’t all have a kraikon’s stride.”
He tugged on the laced leather of the bell-cord and rubbed gloveless hands together. A chorus of wild barks struck up in the grounds beyond.
The door eased open on greased hinges to reveal the corpulent, sharp-featured form of Lady Kiradin’s steward. He wore the plain black frock coat currently in fashion for servants of the well-to-do. Combined with Marek’s smooth pate and sombre demeanour, the clothes conjured the image of a bodyman, come to relieve the recently bereaved of mortal remains.
Malachi drew himself up. “Ah, Marek. Lord Reveque and Lord Akadra to see Lady Kiradin.”
Marek’s expression took on a wry cast at the unnecessary introduction. But protocol was protocol. “Of course, my lord. You’ll do me the honour of waiting while I see if her ladyship is entertaining guests tonight?”
Of course she was, otherwise why the other coach on the driveway? But there were guests and there were guests. And there was more than one way to entertain.
“It’s council business,” said Viktor.
“I’m sure,” Marek replied, the words just the proper side of respectful. “But if you could perhaps wait?”
He offered a shallow bow and vanished towards the drawing room, his footsteps lost in the carpet’s thick pile. Unlike the Reveque household at Abbeyfields, where Viktor had spent much of the afternoon, there was no trace of the corn dollies or bright decorations traditional at Ascension. Doubtless Lady Kiradin believed them wasteful distractions.
“He gets worse,” muttered Malachi. “But I suppose every tyrant above-stairs needs another below.”
Viktor grunted and peered up at the stern portraits of Kiradins deceased. None offered resemblance to the current Lady Kiradin, who bore the name by marriage – her second marriage. The first had ended in disgrace when the husband had been exposed as a vranakin: loyal to the Crowmarket and its shadowy Parliament of Crows – a man steeped in the criminality that oozed from sunken Dregmeet and into the city proper. Ebigail had survived the scandal only by dint of being the first to level accusation.
Marek reappeared as silently as he’d departed. “Lady Kiradin will see you now.”
Subdued lighting granted the drawing room the illusion of intimacy. A low fire crackled in the hearth, a concession to the night’s unseasonal chill. Rich furnishings spoke of the legendary Kiradin wealth; the slight fading of the fabrics hinted at the thriftiness maintaining that wealth through difficult times.
Ebigail Kiradin rose from her armchair as they entered.
“Lady Kiradin.” Viktor offered a deep bow, and a rather shallower one to the man who stood beside the hearth. The fellow’s features were alive with suspicion. The loosened cravat and unbuttoned collar told of rare relaxation. As did the brandy glass in his hand. “Father.”
Lady Kiradin reclaimed her seat. “Ever so formal, young Viktor. Is it really so difficult to address me as Ebigail?”
“I’m more comfortable with formality.” It had not escaped Viktor’s notice that no offer of refreshment had been made, nor had leave to sit been granted. “Especially when discussing council business.”
“Yes.” Her eyes tightened, as if
she sought to peer directly into Viktor’s thoughts and so save herself the trouble of heeding his words. “So Marek informed us. I firmly believe that matters for the Council should remain in council. Don’t you agree, Hadon?”
Lord Akadra’s heavy brows beetled. His cheek twitched in discomfort. “Viktor, what are you doing here? This is hardly appropriate.”
Viktor allowed himself a small smile. There was joy to be taken in seeing his father ill at ease, if only for a moment. In public, he and Lady Kiradin were staunch allies. In private, they were rather more. Though what affection could possibly lie between such bloodless souls, Viktor had ever been unsure.
Equal to that mystery was the reason why marriage had never formalised the longstanding arrangement. The distance between father and son rendered such questions impossible. Kasamor opined that neither party could bear to give up their family name. Latecomer though Ebigail was to the Kiradin line, she defended it as proudly as any daughter of the blood.
Malachi cleared his throat. “In point of fact, I insisted we speak with you.”
“Oh, of that I’ve no doubt,” said Lady Kiradin. “Very well. Say what you have to say.”
“It concerns the Southshires . . .”
“We settled the matter this morning,” said Viktor’s father. “No amount of talk will turn humbled stone into fortresses, or conjure soldiers out of the air.”
That last proclamation struck Viktor as particularly ironic. What else were the kraikon, if not soldiers plucked from sunlight, housed in bodies quarried from the soil? “There are soldiers already in the Southshires.”
“Our garrison forces?” his father barked with disdain. “Old men, young boys and a handful of creaking constructs? Keeping the south-wealders from making trouble is about the only thing they’re good for.”
“I speak of the southwealders themselves.”
“Hah! The Southshires haven’t had an army in fifteen years.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” said Malachi. “You’ve seen the reports. We lose more shipments each month than the one before. Our patrols are suffering. We’ve even lost kraikons, though Lumestra knows how. The Southshires may lack soldiers, but make no mistake – there is an army to be had.”
