Glorious Angels

by Justina Robson

  ‘What the hell are you doing to my mom?’

  ‘Take it easy,’ his practised drawl was steady although he didn’t move at all, even though the position, leant over and half lifting was quickly becoming agonising. ‘I’m going to take her into the house. That’s all.’

  There was no lessening of the pressure on his neck. He felt the tremor from the girl’s arm coming through the object, the frequency of her panic rising. That he didn’t know what it was played entirely to her advantage and he knew he had to control both of them quickly so he started talking.

  ‘In a moment I’m going to count to three. When I get to three I’ll stand up and turn around and you can check and see that your mom’s all right. Okay?’ His own muscles were starting to judder and burn with effort.

  The thing withdrew from his neck, although he could feel it brushing his hair.

  ‘Yeah,’ the voice was a whisper, all that the owner could choke out.

  ‘One, two, three.’ Zharazin straightened up, praying, and slowly turned in little increments until he was facing the girl in the werelight of his own making. Tralane’s daughter, he saw, the one that looked just like her. Minnabar. Good thing it wasn’t Isabeau or he’d probably be dead by now. He looked at the object in her hand, automatically opening a wideband to the Relayers so they could search their databases and identify it for him. Sircene technology, he thought and they confirmed it a split second later. Yes. It was a gun.

  Tralane’s head lay against his shoulder, a feat he managed by adopting a hell of a posture part bent backwards. Her dead weight was hard work. He stood very still as the girl peered, unwilling to get any closer to him.

  ‘What are you doing here anyway? Why are you here? You’re trespassing. I’m arresting you.’

  ‘All right,’ he agreed, thinking this was by far the easiest path for all of them. ‘Can we go inside though? It’s cold and your mom needs a warm safe place to sleep it off.’

  ‘Sleep what off? What have you done to her?!’ The gun shook. The knuckles on the hand holding the gun paled.

  Zharazin remained calm and smiled. ‘She’s in hibersleep. She had to use a lot of magic to land safely.’ He met Minnabar’s eye steadily, all his facial nuances tuning themselves to the friendly shapes that a lifetime of pleasing others had taught him.

  ‘That explains how she got here. How did you get here?’

  Zharazin gave her credit for not wavering. His arms, tired from the climb, hurt in fresh and inexplicable ways. His back hurt. ‘I climbed up the side. Can we go in? I can’t keep holding her too much longer like this. I need to move.’

  She nodded. ‘You go first.’ Then she backed outside. Her own werelight appeared then, a bright orange sphere that indicated plenty of reserve power. Up on the tips of the aerials the signal lights in red and green surged in brightness as though bolstered. He wondered if this was part of her talent as he followed her in careful steps. As she led them across the flight deck to the house door, watching her footing, keeping the gun level, he let his head bend close to the sweet head on his shoulder and let himself be intoxicated for one moment by the odours of leather and smoke and the repeated reports of her beauty like tiny fireworks in his blood.

  But if he thought he got away with it he was mistaken. Minnabar stood aside for him to go first into the house. As he passed her she snorted at him and in the exhalation of her breath, her contempt for whatever she thought he’d done or meant, he smelled her father and mother in her and understood something fleeting and odd about her, himself, the world. He saw her standing on the palm of his hand. He saw Isabeau; white wood stuck in the ground in the tall forest of grey upright trunks. He saw a clockwork object being repaired, unmatched cogwheels meshing together and spinning for the first time in harmony.

  Behind his back she closed the door. He heard it clunk shut with a heavy, final sound and the gun nozzle pushed against his back through the coat. ‘You’re going to go where I say, just because I need you to. After that, you’re my prisoner. You do what I say. Understand?’ Her voice juddered, squeaked. He smiled although she couldn’t see it and walked forward into the staircase, leaning against the wall and its bar for reference and balance as he carried Tralane, sleeping, down into her house. Although Minna had been able to lock him in he doubted she knew who he was or that he was still perfectly able to remain in contact with the Relay. He confirmed that he was entering the house and then cut the connection himself, indicating that he required silent time. He needed all his attention. The stairs were covered in small stacked items that seemed to have been misplaced or were in transit somewhere. Below it was worse. He almost fell over a packing crate. Around him he saw huge rooms filled with bric-a-brac, walls covered in vast portraits, packed with paintings as if no centron of space must go uncovered. Finally, he saw before them at the end of the hall the weak light and wire cage of an elevator. The gun poked him.

  He could have done any number of easy escapes. He walked into the shaky car, feeling the floor tremble unnervingly. His arms were nearly numb. He leant on the wall and the entire thing jolted that way as Minna got in and shakily closed the door. The journey down was noisy and terrifying in its own claustrophobic way. He memorised the operational sequence and felt himself falling in love, slowly, surely, like being hit by that unexpected wall all over again. Night always said it was voluntary. Everything. You chose. You fell, or not. You made the world, or not. The lift’s descent and his own fate were the same. He felt them smooth into one action and knew she was wrong. Sometimes there was no choice. Things beyond volition spoke with greater power.

  By the time they reached the lived-in sections of the house he was in so much pain he noticed nothing of his surroundings beyond whether or not the way was barred or free of obstructions. Minnabar hissed whispery instructions, ‘Left here! Right now. Second right.’ Who could live in a labyrinth like this? He felt others awake in the building, entire apartments passed by, their closed doors sheltering the minor families that came under Tralane’s ancestral web. They were hers to provide for. They worked for her in turn, although judging by the state of their joint fortunes he understood this didn’t amount to much in the grand scheme of the Empire.

  ‘Now put her down.’

  He turned to the side where a long sofa banged his knee and placed his burden on it. He reached out with the intent of placing a cushion under Tralane’s head but was jerked backwards suddenly. He couldn’t keep his balance and staggered into a low, heavy table, sitting down on it involuntarily. Minnabar leapt back, both of her hands training her weapon on him. She looked grey and shaky but he didn’t know what the gun could do, so even though he doubted her willingness to use it enough that he felt no real danger he sat where he was and rested in gratitude, easing each burning muscle in turn. He was proud of her willingness to defend her mother, however foolish her moves.

  ‘And now?’ he said after a few seconds of silence had passed.

  ‘Now,’ the girl said, clearly inventing on the run. ‘Get up.’ She indicated with the gun in case he didn’t understand her.

  He stood up, beginning to see the room they were in. Weak lighting revealed vast, cumbersome furniture from earlier ages, worn to the last weft in places, stuffing oozing out here and there. It was untidy. Books and tablets were roughly stacked. Plates and cups were scattered about. The damasked walls glowered at him with their crimson and gold, daring him to disobey a lady of the house. He smiled at them, having no intention of doing that.

  ‘Back the way you came.’

  He looked down at Minnabar and said gently, ‘Don’t let her sleep it off alone. If she doesn’t wake up by dawn you must call a doctor. Prolonged hibersleep can become coma if it goes on too long. It’s not harmful but it can become extremely difficult to wake out of it without the proper assistance.’

  ‘Just move!’

  The speed with which anger rushed her amused him but he didn’t show it. He turned and walked, alert this time, as they left the lounge and passed al
ong several corridors and down a stair.

  ‘Here. Open the door at your right.’

  He did so and found himself in a bedroom, the air and everything in it tired with neglect. Before he could turn around the door slammed shut – he was sure she had not touched it – and he heard the locks turn.

  ‘You can’t get out.’ Her voice came through the heavy door weakly, the statement sounding much more like a question than it should have. There was a pause in which he could almost hear her thinking of what else to say to him. ‘We’ll be back in the morning with the officers.’

  Well that was plausible at least. He smiled now that she couldn’t see him and finding himself tired now pulled back the dusty coverlet and examined the bedding. It was a little musty but clean and there were no signs of insects or mice. He turned the pillow, removed his coat and boots and lay down in it. By his witchlight he took out Isabeau’s discarded book and began to read.

  TORADA

  The half hour that the Empress had requested between Tzaban’s departure and the arrival of Alide left her alone with Hakka, although this was not truly alone any more than most of her waking hours were. Everywhere she went, and all the time, the presence of the seven was with her, sometimes vivid and fully alive, racing with words, feelings and images, sometimes quiescent – a background hum like the purr of a cat that let her know they were alive and available, closer to her than her own skin. She didn’t know what thoughts of hers they prowled among. She wasn’t sure if they padded silently around when she was asleep, plucking apart her plans with their claws. She knew that they could.

  Since she could remember they had always been there, although it had not always been the same seven people. By the age of four she had learned a few ways to shut them out of her waking thoughts. By fourteen she was adept at closing off pieces of herself, from them, and from her own awareness. This took its toll however. A long period of blockades was exhausting and there must ultimately come a reckoning to settle matters. Sleep was one method, if she removed her restrictions, though then she didn’t know what the other Empresses did. Another was meditation, which she preferred. At least awake she had her bodily sensations to alert her to the activities of the seven. They were not, as she had been brought up to assume, always on her side.

  By this moment of the day she was long overdue for a break, but she did not want to be disadvantaged when Alide arrived. She knew he had his own scouts and agendas, his missions. She was reasonably sure that her welfare didn’t feature highly in any of them, at least only as an accessory to his greater plans. For the time being their goals coincided: maintain the safety of the city, the integrity of the Empire. She wondered if he knew that she had her eye on him, that certain of the others also followed his progress and said nothing, not yet, no. For now let him do as he pleases and meet his fellows here and there, accept his consignments from Spire and from Dirt that passed no duty warehouse on their way.

  Suppose she needed his great ability to construct and mastermind devastation? He was one of few who had such ruthless, imaginative resources and all resources were valuable. Even the despicable ones that wish you dead, she thought

  Torada herself, left to herself, just for now, in silence, beckons Hakka to her and he comes eagerly. He is all strength and animal comfort as he folds her in his arms. She knows nobody understands the story of how she came by him. They say she tamed him, like a horse, like a wild animal. This is not true but it’s a much better and easier story than the truth, so she’s let it become that. He understands her, at this animal level, as he and that Karoo, Tzaban, have an understanding too. Only the animal can keep you alive.

  She rests in his arms, a ragdoll, and he hums to her some Steppeish tune, a bit mournful as if the wind got into it. The vibration of his voice is soothing. For reasons that are deeply ground into her she never lets anyone see this, save Hakka’s lovers, her other guards. They don’t count. They belong to him as he belongs to her and will say nothing.

  ‘What did you think of Night’s new student?’ she asks.

  ‘Temperamental,’ Hakka replies softly, continuing his song after, rocking her, kissing her hair.

  ‘And the General?’

  ‘Out of his depth.’

  ‘And Tzaban?’

  ‘Karoo.’

  Even to the Steppelanders Karoo means unknowable, it’s a synonym for it.

  ‘Truthful?’

  ‘Ayah, of course. Tiger has no reason to lie, hm? Tiger does as he likes, says what he likes, fears nothing.’

  ‘Do you think we will all die?’

  The humming stops. ‘He didn’t lie,’ Hakka says finally and squeezes her tightly, so tightly that she can feel herself made of tiny bird bones under her thin skin and all of them ready to break like twigs. To be hugged by him is a beautiful thing.

  Torada closes her eyes in the crush, safe, hidden, secret, silent. He smells of sweat and the tanner’s leather mixture and the soap they wash the cotton with and home. She is stealing time, stepping out of it. This relationship she has with him is only possible because of her talent – Torada is the Beast Empress, the pheromone queen; through her the city and this fragment of Empire swirls in a biochemical harmony of subtle persuasions, silent communications, and with the exception of Night who is gifted enough in her own way to see it, nobody understands or even realises it except herself. And the seven. Of course the seven. They study her as if she were an experiment, the city her testbed.

  In the scented constriction of Hakka’s arms Torada feels the pressure of the outer world and all of the reactions in the population that she is keeping at bay: their jealousy, their aggression. Empress Nyalin, envious for reasons Torada doesn’t understand, says she runs a sex-rich economy in the kind of voice reserved for condemning criminals and calls her the Pacifier, or in her most resentful moments, Slut. Torada knows because she sneaks around in Tekara’s head at night and eavesdrops on her careless conversations with Haruzh and Tiskla. Dirt, Spire and Wit, she calls them. She wonders if they know. They must know. Dirt with her agricultural garden wonders, Wit charming with words that do such clever work they might have a life of their own, Spire planting ideas as Dirt plants seeds, inspiring and pushing. The other three – Jagoda, Haru Ri and Meixia are far more pleasant, to her at least. She thinks of them as Sister Chimera, Sister River and Sister Cloud. They all have variants of the same basic talent as she does. It isn’t so hard to understand each other. What Torada doesn’t understand is why her version alone causes hesitation, as if it is a second-rate charm. Low, say the three of differing powers. The Sister Empresses – she doesn’t know what they think, they aren’t the sort to comment. She would ask but if she found them all against her the endless subtle pressure would be too much. Even Hakka’s arms couldn’t counteract it.

  Torada makes her people put kindness first. Generosity in mind, body, soul. She doesn’t know where she got this belief from but it’s the one at the centre of her. It is one of the only things she likes about being her.

  All too soon her time is up.

  Hakka lets go and retreats. She sits alone the final minutes and uses a serape to cover the marks on her skin where his armour has bitten and left red lines. Her runners return and freshen the room: new flowers for the evening. From the distance she hears the guards calling. Alide has arrived.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ALIDE

  The Empress looked like a child waiting for a dreaded lesson as Horad Alide approached, his pace suitably firm but respectful. The glassy distance of her pale gaze revealed the intensity with which the seven others rode her. He was glad of that. Dealing with her on her own filled him with distaste and anger; she was no more than she appeared, a slip of a girl unsuited to managing what she must manage by youth and inexperience. Add to that her pallid and uninspiring form and he felt insulted. Of such stuff leaders were not made. Birth and its accidents, he supposed. Nature throws up some oddities we must find charming or strangle. At least now the urge to strangle is finding slow
satiation and he fancies he can see it in the glimmer of her wandering gaze as her eyes track thoughts and words not her own, from those who inhabit her and in whose confidences he rides smooth and sleek towards the throne.

  The horseman, Hakka, looks as if he’d like to fight. The man’s no more than a trained creature, lower than a horse but slightly better than a dog. At least he fit his purpose. Physically past his prime and ever lacking the raw power of a physical adept, Alide finds to his disgust that he still reacts with respect to the brute. Alide has never been bullied, but he has always felt as if he was, by dint of being unable to join in with the strongest at their own games. As a natural defence he developed his internal resources but it irked him as dishonest even though surely it’s better to be the owner of fine horses than be a horse in a stable? His own failure to rise above such pettiness was an abhorrent weakness. His mouth tasted it as he passed Hakka’s leaning spear. To push one’s rage into constructive issues, that was the mark of the man he had made of himself. And not a day went by he didn’t have to think again on it in this loathsome place, fat-fed on sensuality and rotten with contentment. Without him they would have fallen to the primitives long ago.