The Ruin of Angels--A Novel of the Craft Sequence

by Max Gladstone

  “Do you know Alethea Vane?”

  R’ok coughed. They’d reached the front of the line; he bought two mint teas from the heavyset woman who tended the cart, who recognized him and slapped his exoskeleton by way of greeting. R’ok paid before Kai could, and passed her the tea. “I’m not at liberty to discuss my relationship with Ms. Vane.”

  “What about Ley’s?”

  He sipped the tea, or did something similar, which process involved a number of small sharp fingerlike protrusions between his mandibles. Kai breathed rich mint steam. “I believe that is not covered by my nondisclosure agreement. Allie Vane and Ley were both active on the artistic scene at about the same time—Vane’s work and your sister’s pushed in opposite directions from my own. Vane is a genius of scale: she goes big, or not at all, and her work turned around conceptual lock-in, the experience of audience arrest. You’re familiar with Zeybach’s Syndrome, in which visitors to old Telomeri cities are overcome by aesthetic response? Like that. Meanwhile, Ley focused on audience dynamics: community formation and dramatic presentations. They couldn’t stand one another, but there was a pheromonal mix at work—I mean. I’m no human expert, but, wow. Vane grew frustrated with the limited social impact of conceptual art, jumped into application, founded Dreamspinner, but funding lay thin on the ground until she joined forces with your sister. Then—well. They received an immense Sternum Series from a fund that, the most open secret in town is their capital comes from the Iskari Defense Ministry. I should never have gotten involved. But your sister came to me saying, R’ok, it’s great, R’ok, I understand your ideological objections, but, R’ok, the funding, the scale of the work, R’ok, come on. Against my better judgment, I joined. Which, the sudden burning pressure around my heart indicates, is where my nondisclosure agreement cuts in.” He finished the tea, and ate the cup. “I hope that helps.”

  Kai nodded, mute.

  “You haven’t tried your tea.”

  She did. It tasted clear and bright. She breathed out. “You mentioned my sister’s ex.”

  “Hala’Zeddig,” R’ok said. “Yes. Vivid person. As is your sister, of course. They were . . . an interesting pair.”

  “Do you know where she lives?”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  VOGEL HAD NO FIXED business address. He wriggled ratlike through the city’s alleys and avenues, collecting his dues, and retreated by night to corner booths in the restaurants he offered protection at rates he claimed were reasonable. Vogel had come to the city back during reconstruction, one more refugee from the war-torn Ebonwald-Zurish front where so many millions died, and built a cut-rate empire offering cut-rate services to those who fled here after him. Old habits died harder than the old man himself: though the wars were long over, and most of his refugee client-victims these days came huddled in passenger trains from the Gleb beyond the Wastes, he still visited the wharves at night to watch the sand where, as Zeddig had heard the story, he once huddled beneath the knit blanket that was all he could salvage from the wreck of his home. The wars had been thorough on Vogel.

  So she went to the wharves to find him, with Gal at her side.

  “This is a bad idea,” Gal said as they climbed metal stairs to the public walkway overlooking the Kadah port: sea walls angels built between offshore islands two thousand years ago, creating the best harbor west of Apophis. The waterfront felt more Agdel Lex than anywhere: the punishing sun, the air a dry lash against her skin, and everywhere the scent of cinnamon. The Wreckers were hard at work. “Vogel is a thug, Ms. Hala, and he owns your marker. He is vindictive, unsanitary, backbiting, and grotesque.”

  “That’s why we need him.”

  “I see.” Gal sounded unconvinced, to put it mildly.

  “We’ll need supplies for the Altus run, and we can’t gather those without him hearing about it. If he thinks we’re trying to cut him out, he’ll come after us, or turn us in. We can head that off at the pass, and cancel my debt at the same time. Get him on our side from the start.”

  “Vogel humiliated you in public.”

  She waved it off. “He gave me a stomachache.”

  “You were screaming.”

  “It hurt.”

  “You are not helping your case, Ms. Hala.”

  “Look, he may be vindictive, unsanitary, backbiting, and—what was the last one?”

  “Grotesque.”

  “But he’s not that bad once you get to know him,” Zeddig said, at which point they reached the top of the stairs, turned left, and saw Vogel dangling a boy, maybe fifteen, over the railing by his ankles.

  Vogel wasn’t doing the dangling personally, of course. His big Zurish associate, the maskorovik, Ivan, actually held the kid; Ivan’s wrists were thicker than the kid’s ankles, which was backhandedly reassuring under the circumstances. But Vogel’s men were Vogel’s arms, and if Vogel had done the dangling himself, he wouldn’t have his hands free to cut, and smoke, a cigar.

  The walkway was scrupulously empty aside from the crooks. It wasn’t a popular couples spot, but normally at least a few kids with a fetish for heavy machinery would be necking by the container ships. But everyone knew to give Vogel space to work.

  Ivan shook the kid again, and loose bits of paper floated down from his pockets. He screamed and cursed and begged in heavily accented Talbeg, and Ivan laughed.

  Zeddig ran toward the kid; Josep, Vogel’s other bodyguard, blocked her, but she dipped under his arm and past. “Ivan!” Cables worked in the Zurish man’s forearms.

  “I’d recommend against asking Ivan to ‘put him down,’ if I were you, Zeddig.” Vogel sounded pleased with himself. “He might listen.”

  “What the hell.” The kid was babbling—no, praying. She recognized a Kaj family chant, one of the collateral branches. There were tears, but he hadn’t pissed himself yet. “Vogel. What did he do?”

  “He told me he would do a job,” Vogel said. “Something small. But he failed, and tried to hide. Failure, I forgive. But it’s so hard to find loyal help in this city. People assume that because you give everyone a chance, you’re a nice guy, someone they can walk all over. It’s worse, begging your pardon, and you’re very much the exception here, Zeddig, with locals. My local partners tend to assume they can hide: those shifting back alleys of yours, the not-quite-there parts of the city that keep you safe from cops and Wreckers. But you’re never safe from me.”

  “Whatever he did to you, it’s not worth this.”

  “Zeddig.” He blew a smoke ring that split and twisted back through itself. “If you’re not here to talk business, I really must return to mine.”

  Josep caught her arm in his coconut-sized fist, her shoulder in his other, and wrenched her arm behind her back. Before the joint could crinkle beneath the pressure, she was free. “Gal, don’t—” But she wasn’t fast enough. She heard a crack, and a scream. Josep lay on the ground with white bone protruding jagged through the skin of his forearm. Gal hadn’t even drawn her blade.

  Ivan whirled around; he’d forgotten that he held the kid, who smacked against the rail of the observation deck, and screamed again. Josep groaned.

  Vogel rolled the one eye that still worked. “Josep. Get ahold of yourself. What’s broken, we can fix.” Josep bit his lip between his teeth; he lay on the ground, sweat-beaded, cradling his arm.

  “I wanted to talk about my debt,” Zeddig said.

  “I’m listening.”

  “You mentioned a train job.”

  “It’s a job,” Vogel said. “There’s a train involved. The rest is somewhat negotiable.”

  “I’ll work the train. I’ll bring my crew along. We time the hit, and make our way home on our own.”

  “Through the Wastes? Have you acquired a suicidal streak?”

  “Something like that,” Zeddig said.

  “I’ll need a second crew just to get my score back.”

  “Which means you can bring twice as much home. A few more heads, but more than twice the payday.”

  Vog
el took the cigar from between his teeth and tipped ash over the bannister.

  “In exchange,” Zeddig continued, “you cancel my marker—before we go out, not after. And you let him go.”

  “What’s this number-runner to you?”

  She could have said, a cousin, could have said, a countryman, could have said, someone who doesn’t deserve to die today, but instead she said, “Nothing.”

  “What do I gain from canceling your marker before the job?”

  “Same.”

  “Eh.” He scratched the skinless meat of his left cheek, found something small burrowing there, ate it, and returned to his cigar. “I drop the kid, and cancel your marker in advance. Now, in fact.” He drew the vial from his jacket pocket. Sunset cast its shadow red on the ground. She felt the air grow thick, as if he held her, rather than the glass. “Or I free the kid, and cancel your marker when the job’s done.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “I never fraternize with business partners.” He pressed his thumb against the glass. Zeddig’s ribs creaked, but she tried not to let the pain show. “Ivan—”

  “It’s a deal,” Zeddig said. “Save him.”

  “Lovely.” Vogel pointed with the cigar. Ivan lifted the kid without apparent effort, and lowered him to the observation deck. At the port, cranes loaded and unloaded container ships with that same precise motion, and as little apparent effort. “Pleasure doing business with you, Zeddig. Don’t worry about Josep, he’ll be hale and hearty soon. Now. Get this kid out of my sight, before I stop feeling so generous.”

  Zeddig draped the boy’s arm over her shoulder and lifted him; Gal took his other side, and most of the weight. When they reached the road, he muttered thanks, and ran off without looking at either of them.

  “That went better than I expected,” Gal said, “actually.”

  Zeddig wondered what she’d expected, and decided she didn’t want to know. “Let’s go share the good news.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  KAI VISITED DREAMSPINNER AFTER sunset. The offices looked innocuous enough from the street: a smart but unobtrusive gray building high on the slope, about a half-mile’s walk downhill from the Authority tower. Small black windows faced out and down. Nothing about the place seemed even slightly extraordinary.

  At least, that was Kai’s first impression. But when she decided there would be no harm trying to sneak in, play the embarrassed guest routine, so sorry, didn’t mean to bother you, I was just looking for the bathroom, she circled the building three times without identifying an entrance.

  She parked herself in a Muerte Coffee two doors down and across the road and drank burnt espresso while watching the building. A prim Dhisthran woman in a black-and-gold robe appeared on the sidewalk in front of the Dreamspinner offices while Kai’s attention had flicked away from the street, drawn by, well, no sense denying it, the barista, stretching his hands over his head, his shirt riding up to bare a belly just rounded with muscle—anyway. The woman seemed to have appeared from nowhere, carrying a briefcase. Kai forsook all baristas and baristos (did gender actually inflect that word?), and watched as if it were a religious obligation, until she saw three young men, reedy bearded thick-glasses types, one Gleblander and two tanned Iskari, all wearing ill-fitting tunics blazoned with glyphs Kai imagined were supposed to be funny if one understood their references, emerge from the building—literally. A white stucco wall bulged as if budding the young men from its substance. They walked on without breaking stride.

  Craftwork security, of course. If you were the right person, the door existed; if you weren’t, the door did not. The key might be anything: a talisman, an employment contract, a glyph inked on the skin. The last option was rare these days, since access credentials in tattoo form were hard to revoke, though Kai had known Craftswomen who wouldn’t shrink from subjecting soon - to - be - ex - employees to a little unelective surgery. She thought about Tara Abernathy, and about her business card.

  Kai did worship a goddess of creative larceny, but she’d always regarded those aspects of the litany as more symbolic. Breaking and entering were not her strong suit. You can’t do this alone, Izza had told Kai in her nightmares. Let me help.

  And Kai had said as much to Ley, before she vanished.

  No sense wallowing. She could learn from Dreamspinner, even if she couldn’t get inside.

  Night fell, and office lights clicked on, clearing windows opaque by day. Kai breathed her coffee’s acrid fumes. The road choked with pedestrians and commuters, men and women casting off the broad-brimmed hats and robes that hid them from the sun by day. Trolleys winched up the steep hill. Overhead, a few choked stars resisted the city’s ghostlight and fire.

  Dreamspinner’s interior, revealed by its nighttime lighting, seemed cut from the same cloth as the priesthood offices back on Kavekana. Standing desks interspersed with the normal variety, filing cabinets, desk toys. A Talbeg man with a shaved head reviewed paperwork in one window; an Imperial woman poured herself a glass of iced coffee from a jug in an office fridge, then paced, chewing a pencil; a worker with a squid stuck to the back of his skull vacuumed on the second floor. The Talbeg man finished his paperwork, tapped his folders against the desk to make a regular stack, and left. The vacuum squid disappeared, reappeared on the third floor. The Imperial woman left her office, pencil behind one ear, and turned out the door. Two floors up and over, a Talbeg man with a shaved head entered another office, a different office, opened a folder, uncapped a pen, and reviewed paperwork; two floors up and over in the other direction, an Imperial woman poured herself a glass of iced coffee from a jug in an office fridge, then paced, chewing a pencil.

  Wait a second.

  Once she saw the pattern, she saw it repeating everywhere, with a few preprogrammed variations: the redhead with the freckles might do two pull-ups on a doorjamb pull-up bar, or three. The graybeard with the staff paced as he harangued his assistant, or he stood in place performing the oratorical theatrics young initiates back home described as “milking the great Sky-Cow.”

  Dreamspinner: an artistic Concern sponsored, almost entirely, by the Iskari Defense Ministry, so secure they didn’t merely opaque their windows, they projected a fake office upon them. Good thing she hadn’t followed through with the bumbling tourist routine. People with this sort of security might not be kind to poor, lost tourists.

  She’d expected a tight ship, with one cofounder a fugitive and the other slightly deceased, but this wasn’t the kind of security you threw together in an emergency. Dreamspinner had been built impregnable.

  Gods, Ley, what did you get yourself into?

  Kai rose from her counter seat, turned to go, and ran into Lieutenant Bescond.

  “Oh,” Kai said, and, “well,” and, after suppressing a number of curses in an impressive range of languages, finished with, “I didn’t expect to see you here, Lieutenant.”

  “I wish I could say the same, Ms. Pohala.”

  “Just taking in the neighborhood.” Kai, focused on the Lieutenant, hadn’t noticed the hooded and cloaked figure behind her. Beneath the cowl, the figure’s face glistened smooth and wet where there should have been lips, or a nose. Blue eyes shone from the shadows there, also wet. Tears? No: joy. “I don’t believe I’ve met your friend. I saw her last night, though—or her twin sister.”

  “My friend,” Bescond said, “is an Initiate of the Mysteries of Rectification.”

  “How nice,” generally filled space while waiting for someone to explain.

  “The city, Ms. Pohala, does not care for herself. We care for her. The Rectifiers watch the world into shape, and hold the dead city at bay. It’s quite straightforward, really.”

  “I see.”

  “Can I offer you an escort back to your hotel?”

  Kai shouldered her purse. “It’s a long walk. I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”

  “I have a golem cart down the block.”

  “I prefer to walk,” she said, brushing past. “I want to get to kn
ow the city.” But the cloaked figure moved— flowed—slithered—it wasn’t walking, whatever it was—to block the door. Kai glanced around for help. Muerte Coffee’s three other inhabitants, and the staff, even the cute baristo, were doing their best impressions of walls and furniture. Thanks, guys.

  “All the more reason to have someone who knows it show it to you.” Bescond had an easy smile. “Honestly, Ms. Pohala. I understand some hesitation. We met under bad circumstances. I’m not trying to make your life difficult—though I wish you would extend me that same courtesy.”

  “How have I made your life difficult?” Kai placed a special emphasis on I and your.

  “As I’m sure you can imagine, the last few days have produced a lot of paperwork,” she said. “None of which gets done if I have to leave the office to explain things to people who should know better. Now: can I give you a lift?”

  Kai decided not to argue with that. “My mother told me never to get in cars with strange women.”

  “I’m not strange.”

  “Your friend looks pretty strange to me.”

  Bescond laughed. “I promise: we’ll drive you back to the Arms, by the most direct route, and let you out when we arrive. An Authority cruiser is the fastest, safest cab in town. On the way, you can ask me questions, and I’ll give you what answers I can.”

  “What’s in this for you?”

  “Company, and the chance to make up for a bad first impression.”

  Agdel Lex cooled quickly after sunset. Kai shivered under her demijacket; Bescond swept off her coat and draped it over Kai’s shoulders without asking. “I’m fine,” Kai said, and passed the jacket back. “Really.” A man in a tower sang a high warbling song. This street, with its bright offices, clear signs, and utter absence of life, had seemed stable when Kai walked it earlier that afternoon—but stable like a ship’s deck in calm water. Pacing beside the Rectifier, Kai strode on bedrock. The skyline never twitched, and the writhing streets did not rewrite themselves.