One of the women ignores her and ostentatiously neatens a stack of leaflets. The other points with a knitting needle towards a door at the side of the stage.
“Thank you.”
The door leads to a row of dressing rooms. All open, apart from one. Eladora knocks.
“Please, come in,” says a voice both sing-song and guttural, like a lost child calling from deep underground. Silkpurse is the strangest ghoul Eladora has seen; her face hidden by a veil, her claws carefully trimmed, her dress spotless instead of the rags and stolen burial shrouds most ghouls wear when they bother with clothes at all.
“I’m El—” begins Eladora, but Silkpurse interrupts her. “Eladora Duttin! Hello! I saw you talking to Lord Rat earlier. I was listening from under the courthouse. Such a blessed day. Of course, I didn’t think they’d defy Mr Kelkin, but it’s nice to have it all proper and legal-like–but where are my manners? Can I get you something to eat?”
“Um, no, thank you,” says Eladora. Ghouls are known for eating carrion, preferably corpses rich in residuum, in lingering spiritual energy.
“It’s surface food!” crows Silkpurse, producing a biscuit tin. Eladora refuses. Her stomach is still roiling from the smell outside–and from the overbearing perfume in Silkpurse’s room. “What can I do for you, miss?” asks the ghoul.
“Mr Kelkin’s asked me to work on the campaign in the New City. I was dealing with Absalom Spyke, but I’m not sure if he and I are quite the right fit. You were recommended by Mr Kelkin.” In fact, Eladora has no idea who prepared that list of campaign volunteers working on the New City wards, but the praise makes Silkpurse preen and clap. “I’d like you to show me around the wards you’ve been canvassing.”
“Oh, I’d be delighted.” Silkpurse leads Eladora out of the hall and back onto the streets. “Come on, we’ve a few stops to make here in the Wash, and then it’s up to the New City.”
The ghoul’s energy is irrepressible. As they walk, Silkpurse frequently lingers to stick up a poster or rip down a City Forward banner, then races to catch up with Eladora, or bounces ahead to proselytise at some passer-by, shouting that a vote for the IndLibs is a vote for Guerdon’s future. Prosperity preserved, all ills put right.
Back at university, one of Eladora’s friends–a wealthy girl named Lucil–had a puppy, and Silkpurse reminds her of that enthusiastic little animal. That puppy vanished a few weeks after Eladora moved into Professor Ongent’s house on Desiderata Street.
Now that she thinks about it, Miren disliked the animal. It always snapped and growled at him. Now that she thinks about it, she can explain the animal’s disappearance all too easily.
She forces herself to focus on Silkpurse’s constant chattering. The ghoul’s anecdotes roughly match Eladora’s own studies of the New City’s population–around half the residents come from Guerdon and the countryside, and the rest fled the Godswar, in search of the fabled neutral, godless city. Eladora’s interested in the latter group. She needs to know how these newcomers will vote. When she explains this to Silkpurse, the ghoul nods enthusiastically.
“Oh! Oh, you should talk to Alic. He’s new. He’ll help. This way!”
Silkpurse leads her to a large, semi-derelict building in the lower Wash. The bells of Saint Storm ring from the nearby church. The notes are different from what they used to be; they’ve replaced the bells since the Crisis. Silkpurse scurries into a side door, leaving Eladora to wander around the small vegetable garden in the courtyard.
Faces look down at her from windows on the upper floors. She smiles up at them but when she looks closer the faces vanish.
A older woman emerges from a different door to the one Silkpurse used. A Keeper priestess, by her robes, but she isn’t wearing the ceremonial keys. One of her hands is monstrously warped, like the claw of a dragon. “I am Jaleh,” she says, “and this is my house. You don’t look like you’re in need of refuge.” The woman stares at Eladora for a moment, muttering a soft prayer under her breath, and Eladora feels the inkling of spiritual force brush past her. An invocation of some sort. “I might be mistaken,” says Jaleh. “You have been the instrument of the gods before, I think.”
“I’m just waiting for Silkpurse,” says Eladora, uncomfortable under Jaleh’s scrutiny. It disturbs her that even a brief contact with her mother could leave such a clear mark on her that both Rat and this priestess sense it instantly.
The older woman makes a dismissive gesture with her claw. “The gods know those who have walked on the other side. Those who have gone there, even briefly, are never the same. It is… easier to return to that place if you’ve been before, even if you take a different road.” Jaleh looks at Eladora, clucks her tongue. “Have you got a guide, child? Have you taken precautions? It’s better to choose a path and walk it knowingly than to wander blindly.”
“I d-don’t know what you mean.” It’s not entirely true–some of what Jaleh’s saying makes sense. The gods use saints as their instruments in the physical world; points of congruency, as Professor Ongent once put it. Once one deity has created or discovered a point of connection between the realms, then presumably another god could make use of it. Eladora realises that she might be proof of that–her grandfather tried to make her a channel for the Black Iron Gods in that botched ritual under Gravehill, and she was able to contact the Kept Gods. She resolves to do some research on the topic, to talk to Ramegos. To fill her brain with information and certainty, and leave no place for fears to nest.
Jaleh stares at Eladora for another long moment, and mutters a prayer. Then she sighs, shakes her head, and says, “I’ll send Alic out as soon as I find him.” She withdraws inside the rambling sanctuary, leaving Eladora alone and uncomfortable. When she was a child, Eladora caught a fever and nearly died; she remembers her mother sitting by her bed for days, watching over her without actually seeing her. A pitiless determination, as though Eladora was just the terrain on which her mother’s will contended with the fever. Jaleh’s gaze had something of the same steel in it.
Before long, Silkpurse comes bouncing back, with a forgettable man in tow. Average looking, middle-aged, carrying a pile of rolled-up posters and a bucket of paste. His tan suggests he spent time somewhere sunnier than Guerdon. His voice is soft and surprisingly pleasant, though, and there’s a glint of humour that she finds charming. He’s a welcome distraction from her unwelcome thoughts. He’s easy to trust–or would be, if she had trust to give. As it is, she smiles thinly and extends a hand. He tucks the posters under his arm and returns the handshake.
“This is Alic,” says Silkpurse. “He’s eager to help out, and he only arrived from Severast a few weeks ago, so I thought he’d be ideal for what you wanted. Alic, Eladora Duttin is one of Mr Kelkin’s chief advisers, and she’s a scholar and a great lady and—”
“I’m just looking for perspective on the New City,” insists Eladora.
He grins. “I haven’t been here long. I’m still learning the streets. But maybe I can offer fresh eyes at least.”
“Thank you.”
“Wait a moment,” he says to her, then raises his voice. “Emlin!” A pale boy, rake-thin, emerges from the shadows of the house. He reminds Eladora of Miren, somehow.
Alic puts a fatherly hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I have work to do, all right, important work. Can you take care of yourself here?”
The boy nods.
“And Aunt Annah wants to see you this evening for dinner. If I’m not back, can you find the way there?”
“I can.”
“Holy Beggar, light your way.” Alic hands his son a few coins, sends him on his way. A foolish smile on his face as he watches the boy run off.
Eladora leads the trio out of Jaleh’s courtyard and down along the docks towards the edge of the New City.
“Let’s start with Sevenshell Street,” she says to Silkpurse.
“That’s a nasty part of the New City. Some of our lads got attacked up there, canvassing,” warns the ghoul, but she doesn’t
quibble. Instead, her demeanour changes: she drops lower to the ground, sometimes scurrying on all fours. She removes her gloves and flexes her sharp-clawed paws. She darts from shadow to shadow, growling at anyone who pays too much attention to the pair of humans walking behind her.
For her part, Eladora checks her little pistol concealed in her handbag. It clinks against the chunk of broken sword that Sinter gave her. “You came from Severast as a refugee?” she asks Alic.
“Indirectly. I went to Mattaur first. I was lucky–I was a merchant, before, and I knew some people in Guerdon already. I was able to get passage out.” He sighs. “Other people weren’t so lucky. There were thousands left behind. Survivors of Severast, wading into the water after each ship, begging to be taken away from the Godswar.”
“Silkpurse said you volunteered to help out. What drew you to the Industrial Liberals?”
Alic pauses for a moment, considering his words. “What do you know about the sundering?”
“It was the start of the war between Severast and Ishmere, right?” She’s read reports on it, but it made little sense to her. Any news out of the Godswar reads like the ravings of a madman.
“Sort of. Both lands worshipped some of the same gods–Lion Queen, Cloud Mother, Blessed Bol. But in Ishmere they were deeply embroiled in the war, whereas we were on the fringes. Not neutral, but not as involved.” They start climbing up one of the many winding staircases from the Wash into the New City. Six months ago, this was the alchemists’ docks, and ships came from all over the world to trade for dreadful weapons. Now, the ruins of that docks are under fifty feet of conjured stone, and the alchemists have to transport their wares from the regular docks down in the crowded Wash. Alic stops every few minutes to paste up another election poster whenever he spots a free patch of wall. A dozen Effro Kelkins stare down at Eladora.
Alic talks as he works. “And then the gods went mad. Not all at once. You’d hear stories of miracles out of the east, of new saints and monsters. Old ways getting swept away–but it was hard to tell what was incipient madness and what was the normal churn of events. I think the gods–our gods, in Severast–saw it first. That the sundering was an act of self-preservation. They tried to break themselves in two rather than remain part of an infected whole. Some of them didn’t manage it at all. Others did. There were two Lion Queens, for a little while. But the one from Ishmere was stronger, and without mercy.”
“Professor On—a professor of mine at university, he once compared the gods to a burning forest, and human souls to trees. So the sundering was like–digging a firebreak?” She’s enjoying this conversation. Partly because she’s never been outside Guerdon and has no direct experience of the Godswar, but mostly because it’s deliciously heretical. Talking about gods as quasi-natural forces, or phenomena that can be manipulated meant imprisonment and death by burning even a century ago–and is still forbidden in many other, less liberated places than Guerdon. Even the greatest mysteries can be unravelled, catagorised, tamed… and the conversation would really, really annoy Eladora’s mother, which is an added bonus.
Alic nods. “Something like that. But it wasn’t a clean break. There were still sparks in the air in Severast, so to speak. The fighting started in heaven, and spread to the mortal realm. And then the city burned.” His hands are quick and precise. He smoothes out one poster, steps back to admire his work.
They pass a building that bears the symbol of the Keepers. There’s a small crowd outside, and robed Keeper priests move through them, distributing alms and blessings. Distributing little paper rosettes, too–badges of support for the Church in the election.
There are guards there, too, wearing old-fashioned armour. They scowl at Silkpurse, who hisses and crosses to the other side of the street. Eladora starts to follow her, but Alic catches her arm and brings her closer to the crowd.
There’s a fire burning in a brazier outside the church, and another priest throws a log onto the coals and declaims a Safidist prayer. He raises his arms and calls to the Kept Gods to reach down and grant him their blessing. His face is ecstatic, his eyes bright and bulging as he begs for transcendence. He holds his hands so close to the flames that his skin blisters, but nothing happens. The gods do not answer his prayer. They answered my mother, thinks Eladora. But Aleena Humber who was their greatest champion didn’t ask for their blessing–they just picked her at random from some country farm, like a spark landed on her. Our Kept Gods, they’re fucking dumb. All instinct, all reflex, no forethought.
Alic whispers, “The Keepers have a half-dozen other missions like this one; bread and soup for the converts. For some who fled the Godswar, that’s what they want–to exchange the mad gods for kinder ones. But the gods of Severast were our friends and family; not everyone can deny ’em.”
He gestures back down the hill, and from this vantage point they can see the whole bay of Guerdon, with its isles and fortresses, and the harbour crowded with so many ships it looks like the city spills a mile out into the water.
“If the firebreak wasn’t enough to cleave the gods of Severast from the mad gods of Ishmere, then perhaps an ocean will work.”
CHAPTER 14
There’s a small courtyard in the heart of the Haithi embassy. In the middle stands an urn, marked with the sigils of the mort-god whose name is never spoken. It’s for the Supplicant staff; if they die here on foreign soil, their spirits will be collected, stored in the urn, and eventually shipped back home for their final service. Terevant touches the urn, but it’s just cold metal, empty–not like the swirling, flowing strength locked away within the Erevesic sword. The urn isn’t a true phylactery–it can only keep the souls from decaying, from sinking into the material world and dispersing as ambient magic. One merely stores the souls, he reflects, the other channels them, unites them in a common purpose, exalts them. The difference between a mere vessel and a weapon…
Between an urn and a sword, obviously. Gods, he needs coffee.
The luncheon table is like a conjuring trick. One moment, the courtyard’s empty, and then the servants come out with a table. One throws a white cloth over it, and suddenly it’s laden with fruit and cold meats, and hot coffee. Another servant comes out with a pair of chairs.
“Good afternoon,” booms Olthic as he emerges from the embassy. He dismisses the servants with a wave. He’s no longer angry–his rages are like summer storms, quick to pass. “Sit down and eat, damn you. I’m trying to apologise.”
“For what?”
Olthic covers a slab of sourdough bread with jam as if he’s trying to bury it. “I was angry, last night. About the sword–and what I said about your role here. I want you by my side, Ter, like when we were young. I need people I can trust. It’s not just to keep you out of trouble. There’s trouble enough here.”
“What exactly is going on?”
“I can’t tell you yet. I’d like to, but…” He sighs. “By the way, they called a Fifty last month, and I was among those named.”
“Congratulations,” says Terevant flatly. The Fifty is a list of the most worthy and promising Haithi from across all the castes. It’s a worrying omen for Haith, as a Fifty list is assembled only if the necromancers expect a new host for the Crown will soon be warranted. Either the current Crownbearer is sick–or, more likely, they fear Haith will be attacked and want a young, vigorous Crownbearer. But still–it’s the highest honour, the shortlist for godhood.
“So was Lys.”
“Aaaah.” Both Lys and Olthic rose by supporting one another, their alliance catapulting both of them to success in the army and the Bureau, but only one head can wear the Crown. Next to the Crown, the Erevesic sword is a lesser afterlife.
“Are… are you sure you want the sword, then?” asks Terevant. The Crown demands loyalty. If Olthic believes he’s a serious contender for the Crown, then he might choose to voluntarily give up his claim on the sword, which would raise his standing in the estimation of the necromancers. It would show his devotion to Haith, not ju
st to a single House.
The Erevesic blade would go to Terevant instead. He’d have the weapon’s power, be the family champion. A demigod, all his weaknesses burned away, bolstered by the strength of his ancestors.
“I need the sword, Ter,” says Olthic, crushing that momentary fantasy. “This city isn’t stable any more. Imagine what would happen if Guerdon entered the war? If they joined Ishmere? You weren’t here last year, during the Crisis. We lost six of the guard to Ravellers. If I’d had the sword then… you don’t know how different things might have been.” Olthic’s eyes are bright–no doubt envisioning himself cleaving through the tide of demons, thwarting the cultists, saving Guerdon, and winning the undying loyalty of Guerdon’s people for Haith.
“As soon as Lys sends word—” begins Terevant, but Olthic interrupts him.
“Her little pet has been in touch with her already. A week, and the city watch will no longer be quite so watchful. I’ll get it then.”
“Her pet?”
“Lemuel,” says Olthic, removing a stuck fruitfly from the jam pot. “Once the sword is in my possession, it’s done–as long as I do not draw on the most potent gifts of the blade, they will not dare offend Haith by challenging my right to carry it. All in all,” he says, scraping the dead fly onto a napkin, “you were lucky.”
Terevant nods slowly. If Lys hadn’t been waiting at Grena to collect Berrick, then it might all have been far worse. Then again, if he hadn’t gone drinking with Berrick, hadn’t met up with the sisters, or if their bearded chaperone hadn’t been so insistent, then it might all have gone smoothly. Tiny little nudges, each one almost insignificant, conspired to shape his fate. He wonders if that’s true of everyone, if every soul is a little boat adrift in a sea of chaos–or if he’s unusually rudderless.
In comparison, Olthic’s like a steam-driven dreadnought, his constant course unaffected by little whims of fate. “I am the Erevesic now,” says Olthic. “I need to look to the future of our House. Should I die without issue–or become otherwise unable to bear the sword–it would fall to you.”
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