Without a sound, the grey-robed Memory stepped up beside him and laid her hand on his shoulder, her eyes closed. Torada held herself still, but the woman also showed no awareness of her presence so close and after a moment she went back to watching, not even hearing Mazhd’s voice as she saw for herself what came to him through his vision.
In death the activity of the mind had ceased but in the meat the strongest patterns remained printed. Viewing them was like peering through dark glass into deep and muddy water, with fog and smoke in one’s nose, mufflers on the ears and sludge in every vein. Her body reacted as Mazhd’s did, echoing in every cell the distant horror of the dying moments, shock blocking pain and making everything empty. There was a tiger, the palace turning overhead in a bannered vault of stone – a sense of failure losing its grip in an almost pleasant way. There were people around a fireplace far away, their flattened faces above grey clothing watching the flames and waiting.
Mazhd’s voice startled her but she didn’t waver, thankfully, and found Hakka at her side holding her elbow. Whatever he did gave him greater acuity than she in this situation.
‘A loyal servant of the city. The order was surprising but loyalty is unquestioning. He was disappointed to fail his Empress and he accepted his death. I find no knowledge of anything but his own purpose.’
Who were those people, she wanted to ask, but didn’t. She knew already. He would not return to that fireside, as Eth wouldn’t return here. She expected to feel justice but felt only waste. Mazhd withdrew his hand as fast as he was able to and shoved it into his pocket, leaving a bloody print on the corpse’s temple. Briefly, she wondered how much of that person could be saved in the Living Memory, if they had wanted to. Necromants were rumoured to exist but she had never come across knowledge of one or anything but stories. In any case, she didn’t have one nor would she have used one on this. ‘Take it away and burn it,’ she ordered, knowing the command would be heard without having to direct it. Servants appeared with their usual speed and did her bidding, in silence. She turned her gaze to Mazhd and found him looking at her with his head on one side slightly, the hint of a frown between his brows and she realised he knew – he knew.
Dropping all pretence at concealment she addressed him directly and with her full presence, though to other eyes it would appear she merely returned his glance before turning away.
You will never speak of it.
Aloud she said, ‘Go.’ She looked around the room and saw Jago was missing. A quick check and she found him outside with the pallbearers, reaching between their worrying hands with his huge knife bared and glinting in the cold sunlight. She felt the enormous power of him, his pure, brute strength as he hacked open the corpse and chopped out its heart. It was her hand that held it up, still a little warm, the blood congealed in black jellies that slid from its new mouths. It was her teeth that bit it and she that swallowed it, though Jago did it. He did it for her. For Hakka. For Eth.
In the throne room she pushed away from Hakka’s arm and climbed on to the broad seat. She held her arms out before her and pulled up the long, covering sleeves of the robe. In the pale light of the rainclouds a faint pattern of tiger stripes could just be made out against the natural sallowness of her skin as if she had been painted with weak tea. She tasted blood and smiled. When Jago returned, full of grief and needing to fight, he and Hakka would go for each other’s throats. Their failure to protect Eth and the fact they had not been the ones to cull the murderer would lash them to the extremes of their nature and their culture. In the past she would have been forced to separate them by exiling Jago, a humiliation from which he would never recover, but now Tzaban’s trade would leave her able to rule as Empresses were intended – in a state of domination. How this would change them she didn’t know. How it had changed her she would soon find out.
Glimshard was once the city of her predecessor, a city of science, named Crystal for the clarity of progress. Empress’ shoes were hard to fill, harder to remodel: let them think she was the Empress of Sensuality, it was close, but mistaken. Glimshard was not just the Rose. She hadn’t been able to truly make it her own until now, in this defining act, she declared it the city of Alchemy. Call it the cauldron and make her the witch. She thought of it, and considered she already had the cat and the crazy, and laughed.
Outside they heard the first of the Academy Bells start tolling the call for the gates.
ZHARAZIN
Zharazin didn’t hear the bells. He was walking down the halls towards the doors, obeying orders, but his mind remained in a locked room where the Empress had left him. It was such a small space in which to hold the knowledge that had slipped over to him beneath her veils. Though she was a much more powerful telepath than he was she hadn’t understood how much of his other talent was down to the helpless transmissions of scent and the taints that always rode the air. He had noticed that she rode him during his reading, but it was through blood and tears, skin and a slip of her exhaustion that had given her away. In the room he knelt looking up at her, a sense of shock paralysing him for a moment as he saw that where she’d been a black tiger snarled and showed him all its teeth. A tiger furled about with shadows and a familiar scent that made him smile and made his heart break all over again.
No, he’d never say anything. She could kill him at a distance without stirring a whisker. That hadn’t changed. But before she was a girl at heart, a creature he thought expressed in the city’s soft ways and mercies, someone unrelated to anyone he knew. In that moment, in this room, he saw them together, the girl who was Parlumi Night’s daughter, and shoulder to shoulder with her, the beast.
He knew too that, though she felt a secret stolen, she thought he saw only Tzaban’s wedding gift and didn’t realise this final part. Only he knew. How Night had kept it secret – that he would give much to find out, though as he passed the closed door of her apartments in the outer court he didn’t pause. He left the tiger room and closed that too, shut it off inside himself and, like he had for years, pretended he was someone who didn’t know what he knew, who wasn’t who he was and didn’t feel what he felt.
He saw a woman in black flight leathers tearing off a facemask and helmet, her dark hair streaming in the wind. He’d been a fool to pursue her. He should have left that particular precious dream alone where it could remain unharmed for the rest of his life. But then, there were always unkind eyes to find it and prise it open before even he knew what it meant. The allure of his fancy revealed itself as he tried to push it back wherever it came from inside his soul.
This is mine alone. She.
He felt cracks on his arms, as if he were made out of plaster and, in spite of the pain increasing, he began to run, hailed the first passing cab on the road beyond the gate and threw himself into the seat, door slamming as he shouted her address.
On the kerb, the Living Memory stood and watched him go with uncaring eyes, then turned to walk the other way.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
ISABEAU
Isabeau watched her mother leave with the guards. She stood in the doorway and found herself suddenly alone there. At her back she heard the quiet gathering of the Flytes and the Highshaws but the house felt empty even so, because Minna wasn’t in it and wouldn’t be coming back any time soon. She’d never missed her sister. She wouldn’t have now if it weren’t for the fact that she knew her to be a prisoner of hostile forces. It was a strange feeling, like the discovery of a hole where a tooth should be, where you’d never thought about it twice before. She couldn’t stop feeling around its ragged edges and prodding its nagging ache. It didn’t bother her nearly as much as the expression on her mother’s face however. She’d never seen Tralane look helpless before. Her mother had always known what to do, and why, and when. It was unnatural and, she hated to admit to herself, frightening.
She chewed her lower lip as she watched the Karoo lope alongside her mother’s horse. She knew the Empress’ gambit and had recommended its boldness and daring with the
eager acceptance of someone who had not expected to find herself in the immediate consequences. Now she saw how much Night’s glamour and Torada’s presence had already affected her mind.
Minna was gone; though she could not be blamed for that it felt as though she was guilty of it by her choice of reckless action. What had seemed brave and important in the council chamber looked less certain in this light. She watched until the bend in the road down city hid the horse and the creature from sight and then turned, before the empty way ate her resolve. Fifteen or so worried faces looked at her from the hall and the kitchen door, and the door to the dining room, silent and expectant – mostly women, some children. Flytes and Tumblebyes and Highshaws and three of Minna’s web. It was one of these that stepped forwards, a short, mousy girl dressed fashionably but badly, her nails chewed to the quick.
‘Where’s Minna? Has she really gone? What are we going to do?’
‘You’re going to go home,’ Isabeau said. ‘Taking them with you.’ She indicated the other two web members. ‘Minna has gone for a while, but she’ll be back.’
A tall, lanky, awkward youth she’d presumed to be a hanger-on scowled and stepped forward. ‘They say she was kidnapped by the Spire. Is that true? How do you know she’ll be back?’
‘It is true,’ Isabeau said, finding no point in lying. ‘And I know because I will go get her back. For now you go home.’ She turned her attention to the Huntingore retainers. ‘You can just carry on as usual. The bills are paid and everyday things remain the same. Until Mom returns, you can ask me about any problems.’ She found the web youth, whatever he was called, gawping at her. ‘Yes?’
‘How can you be so…’ he started and trailed off, lost for words as shocked Flytes who were always the quickest to react began to mutter plans and shepherd the rest back into their portions of the house. They had their own businesses, of which she knew only the names. She was confident they could take care of themselves, it wasn’t as if Tralane actually did much other than balance the budget.
‘So?’ She waited for any word at all to drop while mentally calculating how far the Flit could have taken Minna if it were the size and power that she had heard from her mother, and if it ran on similar means. Her mom had said there had been audible engines, something that was maybe eight cylinders each, and propellers with some kind of airjet too, though it was unclear if that was also fan driven. Its fuel stop had to be half its possible range away although it could be carrying fuel…
She realised he was speaking and came to what he was saying part way through a sentence.
‘…doing anything!’
Isabeau blinked at him, wondering who he really was and thinking he looked rather like someone Minna had once had an argument with. He wasn’t an engineer so at the moment whatever he was didn’t interest her. ‘The faster you get off my doorstep and start doing something the faster I can do something too.’
His expression as he left gave her no doubt he considered her beneath contempt. She found the mousy girl standing in front of her, half in and half out of the door. Huge grey eyes blinked wetly at her. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
Isabeau thought for a moment. ‘Can you cook?’
The girl nodded mutely.
‘Then make me some dinner. I’ll be in the lab. It’s on the top floor of the main building, top of the stairs, you can’t miss it.’ Isabeau closed the door and went to lock it, but found the lock broken. ‘And start to make a list of everything that needs fixing,’ she added, before checking that the door would at least stay closed against the weather. She didn’t wait to see what the mousy girl thought, but went straight to Best’s room and checked that he hadn’t died or anything. He was asleep, breathing at least, on his bed. Must remember to have Mousy check on him regularly too, she thought – and then hurried on up, past the dead and burned-out elevator and into the attic.
The spinning wheel and seat were both coated in a good sheen of dust. She lifted the seat edge with one finger, sneezing in spite of her efforts not to disturb anything. A rolled sheaf of papers sat in the space where spare wool should have been. She took it out and let the lid down again, then opened the covering papers and read the first printed line:
‘Schematics and Operational Procedures for the Glimshard City Anchor and Propulsion Systems…’
Then she tucked the papers under her arm in a flat position and followed the cold draught up to the roof area.
The door had been closed by someone unused to its idiosyncrasy and had blown open in the gusts that were bringing more dismal drizzle on to the weeds and slowly watering down the bloody patch where the prisoner had been taken and Mazhd wounded. She could not tell whose blood was whose, it was all mucky brown now. There were no marks on the ground so no clues there about the foreign flyer.
She crossed over to the shed and squeezed through the door. Her mother’s Flit was folded up but it seemed in reasonable order. She put the papers into the cockpit as she gave the craft a quick inspection. She’d never been allowed to fly it and nor had anyone else she knew but the theory was something she could learn. Sadly it did not look as though she could carry more than a single passenger or a relatively small cargo. It was really only meant for one person as a jaunting vehicle, though Isabeau felt confident it was robust enough to take a few alterations and bear someone who was not too heavy. There were places on the wing that could be rigged for a harness though there was no way to put in a second seat.
Satisfied with what she’d seen she climbed up into the cockpit, turned on the lamp at the dashboard, and began to study the papers. They were copies, she noted, but the copyist had been careful to make exacting notes of their work, which led her to believe the date cited for the original drawings was correct: five hundred and twenty-two years previously. The engineer who had finalised the plans was Astatuo Mozettin, a grandfather and a Sircene: at that time the crafts and talents were all together in one great house at the service of the Empress when the Empire had been a single city. Glimshard had not been planned as a city but as a folly – a travelling pleasure district, for sightseeing on an epic scale. This purpose was long since vanished under the aspirations of the Empress, or, according to critics, to her hubris and folly. She waited until she was sure that she understood everything she was seeing, and then rolled the papers back up into their binder and hopped down from the cold leather seat. She closed the shed up, fixing the loose door hinge with a wooden chock under that side of the door, and then spent a minute or two finding items to barricade the broken top door shut before following the clear trail through the attics’ dust back to the laboratory.
She felt her brows knit into a frown at the shocking state of the place. However, she had enough discipline to know that one woman’s mess was another woman’s work-in-progress and she knew that it looked worse than it was – the basic apparatus that she had come to find was in its place beneath the workbench. The emergency address system was little used as a matter of protocol. Speedy communications could always be sent over the aether from any mage to another, and that was satisfactory for most purposes, but she couldn’t use the messengers for something like this. The situation and her new authority demanded instant action. She picked up the handset and selected the codes for contact to all the civil engineers simultaneously; those in the University and those elsewhere, and she added the code the Empress had given her, to flag her statement with the force of law.
‘As of this moment the city is entering vehicular mode. Those not in position must move to their stations immediately. All timing devices are to be set to the Imperial clock time minus ten minutes effective as of the final of ten bells following this message. Final warnings are now automated at all gates. Stem crew, empty and disable all elevators. Remove all cars from the tracks. Warders clear the stem walkways. Prepare for high city de-elevation.’
She clicked off the handset and wondered what this was going to be like as she heard the bells chime down the ten count and set her watch to it.
/> A chime sounded, followed by a breathy male voice, ‘This is Tower 58. Enemy outrunners sighted two miles short of the north gates. Main army follows, half mile behind.’
Isabeau coded again. ‘Portal outpost, do you read?’
She tried the line several times but nothing came in return, only static. She called the general to inform him of what he no doubt already knew. His ancillary, Gau Tam, answered for him, his cultured voice that she recalled reeking of self importance now clipped into simple expediency. ‘We’ve lost contact. I’m heading that way myself right now to find out what’s going on.’
‘We arrive there in four hours and twenty-seven minutes,’ Isabeau told him.
‘I can’t guarantee anything.’
‘Understood.’
The line went silent for a moment, then began ringing and ringing – she saw the call list included nearly every engineering station. There was no time to answer them. She checked handset charge and located an empty gear bag, threw that in, along with as many of the toolsets as she could carry, and hurried down the stairs, pausing only to collect her long winter coat. At the kitchen she found the Flytes looking after Best and leaned around the doorpost to face him.
‘Make sure nobody goes upstairs for the next hour,’ she said. ‘And if you hear anything heavy falling, get under the table.’
‘I should go with you,’ he said, valiantly, though he looked a pasty grey colour.
‘You can get up to the lab station and help from there,’ she said, hoping the towers would not fall and crash through the roof. ‘But there’s no need until you hear the all clear.’
Glorious Angels Page 34
