“It’s late. Will this person even be awake?”
“He doesn’t sleep, as such, anymore. Now. Come, or I’ll drag you.”
Purcell glanced around the room, looking for some excuse to remain, or perhaps a handhold in case she made good on her threat. He found nothing. “My employers—”
“Can wait. We have a city to save.”
She walked fast for the elevator, tapped her foot as the numbers climbed, and when the doors rolled back pulled Purcell in after her and pressed the button for the roof. Hold on, Temoc, she thought, as if sheer force of will could send her words tumbling across space. Hold on.
On his bed in his empty room, Tan Batac kept smiling.
54
The people of Chakal Square slept, and gods walked through their dreams.
Temoc knelt before the altar, and listened.
By Bloodletter’s Street, a boy armed with a nail-studded stick stood at his post and drank tequila from a brushed steel flask. Fire quickened in his throat, and down. “Don’t hog,” said the man beside him—massive, tattoos peeking from his ragged shirtsleeve. “Pass it down.” The boy drank again, and thought of his sister, who had warned him against joining the Chakal Square protest, who said the family needed him, only death could come of standing against the King in Red. He finished the drink, taking more fire into his stomach. He had died tonight, almost: a shattered spar right through him, blood seeping from the wound. But then the Couatl turned back, and the skies opened, and the earth as well, and he heard a voice like his father’s only bigger, older, deeper, words in a language he did not know but to which his body answered, calling him to rise, to stand, to serve. He was one wave in an ocean that had learned to speak. He passed the tequila, and the man beside him drank too, and when the man finished the light in his eyes was the same as the light in the boy’s, and they were brothers.
Bill and Kapania Kemal lay in their tent together, stewed in sex. The bandage around her arm smelled of aloe. “You felt it,” she said, awed. And he, who never was a religious man, answered, “Yes,” because when Temoc’s knife went in he’d somehow shared the Major’s body, one with him, staring up at the invisible sky. And when the heart rose he’d risen with it, and the clouds ripped away to reveal starlight and the risen gods. “He shouldn’t have done it,” he said. “Temoc.”
“Could you have turned the Major down, if you were in his place?”
“Maybe not. But we’re all in this together now. The gods are watching. Before, we could have run.”
“Would you run?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know. But we can’t, now.”
She touched him, rolled on top of him, kissed him, and they spoke no more.
“Gods’ blessings on you,” said a woman who walked the lines of the dead with a statue of Ixchitli in hand. “Gods’ blessings on you,” to a man whose blank gaze reflected stars. “Gods’ blessings on you,” to a woman burned to death. “Gods’ blessings on you,” to an old man who bled out when his broken thigh nicked his femoral artery. “Gods’ blessings on you,” over and over, though Ixchitli Himself was dead, and the words she spoke only words, not prayers.
Above and beneath them all, the gods moved, and Temoc heard their footsteps. The Hunchback capered among the fallen, raked his fingers through dreams as a man on shore might rake his fingers through wet sand. Ili of the White Sails spread her wings and breathed over sleepers and quick alike, stirring them with raincloud fragrance. Ixaqualtil Seven Eagle panting dagger-toothed chased dreamers through his hells, long tongue lolling, and his breath stank with the devoured. The seven corn gods grew, praise be to them, blessings upon us all who die that we may be ground to powder and that powder used to make new worlds. Gods and goddesses of thunder and of the demon wind, of rivers and mountains long sunk beneath the waves, of war and healing, of death and rebirth, of games and the players of games. From Chakal Square’s faith they wove themselves, from the instant’s glory of the sacrifice.
You could not see them with the naked eye. If you walked through Chakal Square that night you might not even feel them, without having paid as its people paid, suffered as they suffered. To feel the gods sift the sand of mind for the pearl of you, you must stand with one foot already in their world.
Not the world of the dead. The world of story.
Temoc listened, and prayed the prayers he knew in silence.
He did not look up when Chel joined him beside the altar. What she had to say, she would say. What she could not say was not his responsibility to force from her. Nor his right.
“You came back,” she managed at last.
“I could not let you die.”
“But we will, now,” she said. “The Wardens won’t stop.”
“Nor can we, now the gods are here.”
“They’re terrifying.”
“They always are,” he said, breaking off his prayer. They heard him speak, and drew near to listen. “They are more than us, but they are us too. And we terrify.”
“What I did today,” she said. “Coming to get you. I had no right.”
He did not reply.
“I’m glad you came, though.”
He nodded, knew the nod was not enough.
She touched him on the arm. That was the first and only time she touched him, and he did not touch her back. He wished he could have told Mina that, somehow. He had not left her for another. He had left her to die. Which was, he supposed, no better.
An apostate at the last.
Chel let him go, and left him. The gods’ breath washed over him like water, and he feared that they were laughing.
* * *
A voice in the night cried Chel’s name; she thought at first it might have been a god, and realized too late that it was Tay. He forced through the faithful, smiling broken-mouthed. She braced herself, but not enough. He hit her like a train, caught her in his arms, and lifted. “Gods, Chel. When they hit us, I thought…”
“I know,” she said. “I know.”
“They pressed our eastern flank the whole time.” He set her down. She reeled on her feet. “The guys would have folded if I left. And then we had the wounded, and then—”
“It’s okay,” she started to say, but he was kissing her. He tasted sweet, and in that dark hour it was almost enough.
He must have tasted something else in their kiss, because he broke it off and drew away. She followed his gaze over her shoulder. Temoc knelt there, shining. “He’s back.”
“Yes.”
“I heard things out in the camp. Blind men can see. The lame can walk. They say the gods are awake. They say Temoc killed someone.”
“He’s killed before.”
“You know what I mean. On the altar. For real. With a knife.”
“The Major was about to die. He wanted to go the old way.”
“Gods.”
“Well. Yeah.”
“They won’t let us go,” he said. “Not after this. Riots, I mean, whatever, just some poor folks in the Skittersill, right? Dockhands and schoolteachers and shit. But they can’t let us do things different from them. Not this different.”
“They might.” Even she did not believe that. She had said as much to Temoc. But he needed some hope.
He pulled her close. He smelled smoky and unwashed, and so did she. “Let’s go. Before it gets worse. Slip out into the night. Bring the dockside guys. There are enough red-arms left without us to hold the camp together.”
“I can’t,” she said. “I brought him back.”
“You said this was bigger than people. That we were fighting for ideas. Well, the ideas have changed. This isn’t why I came.”
“I know,” she said. “But I can’t leave.”
“Then I’ll stay, too.”
“No, Tay.”
“Shit.” He broke their embrace. “If you can die for someone, so can I.”
“We won’t,” but she could not finish that sentence. The firelight caught his skin all bronze and ochre and gold, and hi
s eyes chips of jet, the broken and reset nose that made his face the face of an old soldier on a monument, all courage and loyalty and too few brains.
“You want to stand, we’ll stand together.”
“We might die.”
“We’re too pretty to die.”
“Speak for yourself.”
He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, pondered them, and put them back. “That’s settled, then. We stay.”
“Yes.” Gods, why did that sound like passing sentence? She grabbed his wrist, thick-roped with muscles. He was sweat-slick and sooty and very real. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s find an empty tent.”
He followed her into the night of the gods.
55
Elayne landed on the summit of the obsidian pyramid at 667 Sansilva, by the King in Red’s office dome. Approaching from the air, she’d been overcome by memory: the greatest battle of Liberation was fought here, forty years ago. Here, Kopil broke gods on their altars. Forty years gone and still, to her eyes, rivers of rainbow blood rolled down the pyramid’s steps, and ichor slicked its surface.
Purcell clutched his briefcase with both hands, fingers white-knuckled against leather. He did not share the memory. He was just afraid of heights.
No time for appointments or the front door—not that the secretary would be on duty this late. Lights glowed within the translucent crystal dome in the center of the roof. The master was home.
Elayne knocked three times on the dome. “Old man,” she said. “Let us in.”
“Elayne.” Kopil’s voice in the air beside her. “A pleasure.”
“I’ve brought a guest. Don’t kill him.”
“A friend?”
“Not really. But you should hear his story.”
“Come along, then.”
“Come here, Purcell.” She crooked her fingers, and though she used no Craft, he staggered toward her, obedient as a zombie. “Through the crystal.”
His face was paler than it had seemed under the hospital’s ghostlight. “Do you know where we are?”
“Do you think I’d land on a strange pyramid for fun?”
“But this—”
“He’s not as bad as he looks,” she said. “So long as he’s not kept waiting.” And before he could object again, she walked through the dome. He followed her.
The crystal parted, pricking her skin like a waterfall of blunt needles. The King in Red sat at his desk, the sloped block of red-tinged obsidian that used to be an altar. The office looked much the same as on her last visit, maybe a little cleaner than usual.
“You should have seen it, Elayne.” Kopil stood, the fires of his eyes stoked and fierce, finger bones scraping over glass. His robe blew about his body in an unfelt wind. Bad form—wasted power, wasted focus. That said, he had power to spare. “I never imagined they’d go this far. They want to fight the God Wars with one priest and few suicidal kids. I will give them such a war as to burn their memory from this or any world.” The lights in his eyes went out, and on again. “Who’s that?”
“Lord Kopil, Deathless King of Dresediel Lex and Chief Executive of Red King Consolidated, meet Jim Purcell, insurance agent from Aberforth and Duncan.”
“Ah,” Purcell said.
“Does it speak?”
Purcell tried to reach into his breast pocket and remove a business card. He succeeded on the third attempt. “It’s a—a pleasure to meet—”
The card jumped from his hand and floated across the room. The King in Red reviewed its front and back, then vaporized it. Purcell, fortunately, did not faint.
“Elayne, I appreciate the thought, but I’m covered.”
“You are,” she said. “The Skittersill isn’t.”
“I fail to see how that’s my problem.”
“You’re about to bring God Wars weapons to bear on the Chakal Square protesters.”
“I don’t need a lecture about proportional response. They chased off a commando squad. They’ve started to sacrifice people. Their gods are awake, and gathering strength. If we don’t stop this now we’ll be fighting full-scale Wars in weeks.”
“You haven’t stopped fighting them in forty years.”
“Nor has Temoc. Nor have you.”
“I don’t plan to burn a city to the ground tomorrow.”
“You’ve never governed, Elayne. With all due respect. You have never ruled. Sit on this side of the desk for a while, and you’ll see things differently. Without the work my people do, there is no water in this city. How long do you think the Skittersill would last in that case? Or Dresediel Lex itself? I must save my people.”
“And in the process, you get to kill some faithful. Gods too, if you’re lucky.”
He grinned. He was always grinning. “I never said I wouldn’t enjoy it.”
“Why?”
“I dislike the faithful’s smug superiority. Their assumption that gods will protect them. They strangled human progress for three millennia, sent millions to their deaths in dumb wars backed by dumb theology. They killed the only man I’ve ever loved. Or maybe I’m just bent that way. Take your pick.”
“I meant, why are you killing them now? The proximate cause, please.”
“We’re not doing this cross examination thing. I don’t have time.”
She put the cold into her voice, the chill that had broken better men than him on the witness stand. “You don’t have to sleep. And how long does it take to plan a mass murder? If you like being manipulated into a war crime, fair enough, but don’t drag me with you.” Purcell, beside her, drew back. Poor guy. Should have left him outside until this part was done. “Now. What’s the proximate cause?”
“Temoc sacrificed a man in cold blood.”
“After all but starving his gods driving off your Wardens, which he wouldn’t have done if the Wardens hadn’t attacked, which they wouldn’t have done if Chakal Square hadn’t broken into a riot, which would never have happened if Tan Batac wasn’t shot. Isn’t that right?”
“Objection. Counsel is leading the witness.”
“None of this would have happened but for Tan Batac’s attempted murder. Do you disagree?”
“Fine. If not for that, we would have left Chakal Square without incident.”
“The question is, who benefits from this state of affairs. Purcell’s masters at Aberforth and Duncan insure and protect the Skittersill property Tan Batac and his partners control. The accords void their pre-existing deal—they call for more protection than Aberforth and Duncan provide at the prices Batac and his people pay. Purcell, how high are the new premiums?”
“I don’t feel comfortable quoting the precise figures.”
“Estimate.”
“Ah,” he said again. “I believe it’s an order of magnitude difference. At least.”
“So. Ten times the cost to protect Skittersill properties, as long as they’re occupied and used for their current purposes. That was the deal. All along, the accords shackle Batac and his partners. They don’t own what they own.”
“So Batac made a bad deal. He’s only human.”
“He made a bad deal, unless he thought most of the Skittersill would be destroyed between the signing of the accords and the new insurance regime’s establishment.”
“You’re saying he might be happy I’m burning the Skittersill. Fine. I’ll joyfully oblige.”
“I’m saying he wanted you to burn the Skittersill before the accords were signed. I’m saying that was why he agreed to the accords in the first place.”
“You think he wanted me to destroy his property, knowing he’d get nothing for it?”
“Nothing but fee simple ownership. The ability to use the burned ground for anything he and his partners want. Those crystal palaces in our plan—the district rebuilt, everything our friends in Chakal Square wanted to stop. Those buildings are undefended now, not even a shade of fire resistance. You attack, and they go up like tinder. People will die—not protesters, people who just happen to live nearby. Batac
gets the Skittersill wiped off the map, and he doesn’t even look like the bad guy. After all, everything went down while he was comatose.”
“You think he took out a hit on himself?”
“I think,” she said, taking a slow breath to compose her thoughts. “I think it’s possible he had himself shot. There’s no evidence. The assassin in Chakal Square may never be found. But Batac will profit immensely from what you do tomorrow.”
“You have no evidence.”
“Can you think of another reason he’d make that deal?”
“A weak case.”
“Are you willing to risk being manipulated into a mass murder? A crime from which someone else reaps the profits?”
“I thought reaping prophets was the whole point of religious war.”
“I’m not joking.”
The King in Red rested his hips against the desk. He crossed his arms, tapped forefingers against his bare tibia. “What do you want from me, Elayne?”
“Don’t let one man profit on the wreckage of a war he caused.”
“Look. I understand. You’re a genius. I’ve never known a Craftswoman like you.”
“Don’t you dare patronize me. You have been playing at war while people die.” Visions of the boy bleeding in the hallway of the Monicola Hotel. She forced them from her mind. Growing too emotional. Bad tactic. Skeletons don’t like emotion. Makes them nervous.
“You want a clever solution,” he said. “You want that moment when whole world ties together in a knot, and you chop the knot in half, because that’s the way it works in court, with Craft and pure theory. We don’t have that luxury here. History has happened. I need to resume control of Dresediel Lex. I will do that with fire, to show that rebellion and sacrifice will not be tolerated. You can try to stop me.” He sounded tired. “If that’s how you want to play the game. You might be smart enough. You’re cleverer with the Craft than I am. But you don’t have the strength. So I’d advise against it.”
Which was the other thing about skeletons: he did not know how much his saying that made her want to try. For him, it was a statement of fact, free of adrenaline and glandular rage. Beneath the masks of performed emotion he was just a man still here twenty years after his body died. She stared into the abyss of his eyes, and he stared back.
Last First Snow Page 28
