“Nice to meet you at last, my name is Tizkar Yosef.”
The young man crouched on his toes and extended a hand to Enk, robed in a large coat embroidered with fine, gold branches, lavished with shoots of new greenery. A double row of metal buttons glittered at his chest and a sword-belt hung at his waist. His narrow breeches disappeared into white stockings above polished-leather shoes with high heels.
“How did you. . . ?” Enk stared at the offered limb. “What are you?”
Tizkar lowered his hand and sighed. “Good question. I’m still trying to figure that part out, but I suppose I’m like you. A Halfgod.”
“Like me? A Halfgod?” A kind of anxiousness clasped Enk tight.
“That’s what I’ve named what we’ve become. I’ve been searching for you for the last two days, and, let me tell you, that’s no small feat in a city of half a million.”
“W-why?” Enk said, startled by the crow that croaked in his throat. “Why . . . search for me?”
“I felt your ascendance, though, at first, I didn’t know what it was. I’ve been trying to track you down ever since. You give off a ripple every time you use your power, and I’m sure I do the same.”
“I’ve felt nothing like that.”
Tizkar tilted his head, thumbed the end of his long nose. His gray eyes caught stray starlight, gleamed like those of mischievous cats. “Give it time, your still new to your power,” he said, rising from his crouch. “It took five days until mine came into its full strength.”
“Five days?”
Without a word, Tizkar rummage through an inner coat pocket and withdrew a silver locket. Enk found himself shifting to get a better look at the thing, straining his eyes to make out the design twisted into its glossy surface. An elaborate rose, forked with thorns. Tizkar opened the locket, flipped it ajar with a thumb.
“How long have you had this power for?” Enk asked in a louder voice.
Tizkar regarded him with wet eyes. “A little more than a week,” he said finally. “Nine days to be precise.” The man’s eyes reminded Enk of the dead orb he had once glimpsed in the basement of the Grand Academy, the way the lamplight had sank into its ancient surface, drawing a corresponding sense of hopelessness from his breast.
“I see. . . .” Enk said slowly. “But you still haven’t really answered my question, have you? Why go through all the trouble of tracking me down in the middle of the night? It must be something more than curiosity to bring you here now.”
“Before we get to that we need to speak about something,” Tizkar said, shutting the locket with a forefinger. “Halfgod to Halfgod.”
Enk shook off the last of the fiery loops knotting his brain, then lifted himself onto unsteady legs, gripping his sword. Something, an unsettling cloud, billowed through him. Why? Why did fools always insist on sprinkling theatrics into situations already fraught with it?
“You have to be careful,” Tizkar said, fixing Enk with a poignant gaze. “Our gift turns human beings into unwilling supplicants. That’s why I called us Halfgods, not out of any egotism or arrogance, but as a reminder of the danger such power holds. I use mine but rarely, and I think you should try to do the same.”
“How noble of you.” Enk’s mouth soured. An old pattern repeated; he stood judged, was found wanting. He had stopped himself from murdering the thieves, did that not count for anything?
Tizkar laughed. “No, I’m the furthest thing from that. All this finery is as new to me as my power. I was born and raised in the Shade. That taught me caution and the healthy respect for the other end of a blade.”
“Why are you here?” Enk asked crossly.
“I want your help, if your willing to give it.”
“In what exactly?”
Tizkar flicked open his locket, peered into its hidden interior. His eyes re-misted. A moment of silence. He blinked.
“I’ve heard revenge compared to many things,” Tizkar said, taking a deep breath, “but to me it has always been like and unlike a darkling sky. Unlike it in the way it starts as a stain that deepens the longer you contemplate it. Like it in the way it consumes all that came before it.”
A click, the closing of shaped silver.
“I need you to join me in mine,” Tizkar said with barely repressed passion. “I want you to make my darkling sky your own. I hunt the Scarlet Apron, my sister’s murderer.”
Enk stood utterly still, more incredulous than shocked. Not only did this fool claim to share the same ability as he did, but one of his loved ones had been murdered by the same villain? He shook his head. The odds were too long for any of this to be happenstance. Logic dictated that someone or something unseen worked behind the seeming of things.
“Her name was Nanefe Yosef, but I always called her Nane,” Tizkar continued in a softer voice. My Nane. She’s not among the commonly excepted list of victims, but the way she was—”
“A Devotee of. . . .” Enk frowned. “Your sister was a Devotee of the Holy Harlots.”
“Yes. . . .” Gray eyes narrowed into perilous slits. “How did you know that?”
“This will sound unbelievable, but I hunt the Scarlet Apron as well.”
“What?”
Enk pawed at his own hair. “Merka, my servant was his latest victim.”
Merka, the mother of his heart if not his flesh.
“I-I . . . what’s your name?”
“Lord Enk Gueye,” Enk said with some reservation. Gasping looks of shock and wonder unerringly followed this pronouncement. He steeled himself. Nothing instilled bitterness like the inescapable shadow of a venerated progenitor.
The expected response. “Any relation to—”
“Yes, he’s my father.”
“Oh,” Tizkar said, his tone forlorn. “I’m sorry.”
A slow blink. “Sorry? Why?”
“Because I know how tiring it gets being forever tied to another’s fame and glory. I’ve spent most of my life paying for my father’s infamy. When a criminal loses his head, it’s his children that truly pay.”
Enk lowered his gaze, but said nothing. A pang of distress slashed his chest. They held too many dimensions in common, he and this young man.
“It appears God has entangled us both in her machinations, and I can’t see any nobler course than the one she has set before us.” Tizkar extended a hand to Enk. “Will you join me?”
Enk hung in a state of uncertainty, eying the proffered appendage. As much as he longed to find Merka’s killer on his own, he could not help but feel a certain kind of kinship with this man. The why of it puzzled him. This was not like. . . .
He clasped Tizkar’s hand, and distant thunder thudded the sky above them, evoking an impression of peril and wonder, as if the Thousand Heavens themselves marked this instance as sacred.
■■■
Wary he whom draws the eye of the divine, for folly will surely follow.
Those words repeated in Enk’s mind for the tenth time as he rolled through the city, slouched in Tizkar’s carriage. The quote came from one of the books on his shelf; he was almost certain, but for the life of him, he could neither remember the context nor the title. Stroking his brow, he did his best not to groan in frustration.
It was not like him to forget.
Fatigue. It had to be fatigue.
He stared out the window, irritation scratching his eyes. Rain fell in curtains, and lightning frolicked through half glimpsed horizons, only to vanish then reappear. Booms thudded hard against hollow skies.
Click-Clack, a song heard in between the roar of thunder.
Enk turned to Tizkar, who held the silver locket open in his hand. The man was not much older than himself, he realized. It was merely his wig that gave him an air of maturity beyond his span of years. That and eyes that never flinched even when startled, as if they had witnessed too much horror to ever be made fearful again.
“Where exactly are you taking me,” Enk asked. The scent of lavender and oranges hung in the air, sourced from the o
lder boy’s wig.
“You and I are not the only ones who seek justice for our love ones,” Tizkar said, not lifting his gaze from his locket.”
“You enjoy making an art of mystery, don’t you?”
Tizkar sighed. “No, I don’t.” He tucked the locket away and faced Enk. “It’s just simpler if you see what I mean for yourself. I’m not in the mood for any more overlong explanations.”
“You miss her, your sister.” Not a question, an observation.
“Yes,” Tizkar said through clenched teeth. “And more so with each passing day. Sometimes something in me shifts and it’s all I can do not to. . . .”
“Unleash your rage onto the world,” Enk finished.
“Yes,” a petrified whisper.
Enk swallowed, recounting the many ways Tizkar’s contours mirrored his own. There was something maddening happening here! Tizkar was him, just without the gilded station and lung wheezing sickness. Ilima would have never. . . .
He frowned. Was this what it felt like to be understood?
The carriage prowled past fugitive factories, nimbused in flashes of ivory light, indifferent to the ruinous shells of once shining industry. As wretched as the partially burnt factories appeared, the one the carriage approached seemed even more so, despite the fact its walls remained intact unlike some of its brothers. Refuse and shattered masonry strewn its yard in disorganized heaps and iron bars gleamed over boarded windows.
Large loading doors swung open, and a bubble of weak lamplight joined lightning, pillaging the blackness with a radiance all of its own. Rain-soaked horses rose voices at the prospect of warmth and shelter, and the carriage lurched forward at a quicker trot.
Enk shifted in his seat, taking in the view. Bent loops and metal teeth rose from twisted rows of broken machinery. Their sinister forms yielded completely to the gloom wherever lamps were absent, only to reemerge when the heavens crackled and incandescence bloomed along the cracks between shuttered windows. Beneath the first array of warped iron looms, shadowy figures sat about tables, figures that cried out in greeting at the sight of the carriage.
A hand fell onto Enk’s lap. “Relax, neither they nor I mean to wear your skin as clothes,” Tizkar said.
Unamused, Enk asked, “Who are they?”
“Before last year’s riots, this used to be a cotton mil. Now, we just call it home,” he said. “You haven’t figured it out yet?” A slight grin, cutting for the disappointment in his eyes. “Your lost of a love one to the Scarlet Apron was not the only reason I was taken aback earlier.”
Enk returned his attention to the window. The motley crew surged toward the carriage, an even mix of men and women, most middling in years, calling warmly up at him, as if they shared a bond deeper than mere blood. Faces smiling, hands reaching out, as if to comfort. A pang of familiarity. The faces matched sketches briefly glimpsed in Ilima’s leather folder.
“Ah, you figured it out at last,” Tizkar said. The loading doors clanked shut behind the carriage, and the storm’s fury retreated, reduced to a persistent buzz at the edge of hearing.
“You’ve gathered the family members of the Scarlet Apron’s victims,” Enk mumbled. “That’s what shocked you when we first met. The symmetry of the moment, the coming together of distant threads.”
Tizkar nodded. “Not all of them. Only the ones that wanted to join, but yes. They’ve been my ears and eyes these last few days. We’re close to the end, real close. Come, let me show you.”
Enk sat blinking, then followed Tizkar down into a familial like gathering of two dozen. He watched gray-haired women shower Tizkar’s cheeks with kisses and red-faced men clap his back. Tizkar wilted, hunched from the overzealous attention. He seemed little more than a boy swarmed by doting aunts and uncles. He raised his hands in surrender, cracked off a nervous laugh.
“I see you all kept drinking without me,” Tizkar said.
“Well, you don’t expect the bottles to finish themselves, do you?” someone quipped. A man with a chubby face and drooping eyes.
Raucous laughter, a touch louder than the joke warranted.
“And is this him?” a woman with an overflowing mug asked.
Tizkar glanced at Enk. “Everyone meet Enk, the Scarlet Apron’s latest victim was his much beloved servant. Enk meet everyone.”
A chorus of condolences rose to pelt Enk, mixed with looks filled with pity. He weathered the scrutiny with what he hoped was indifference, but inside he retreated. Heartfelt, their commiseration pricked in a way only those who had experienced similar lost could manage.
“Enough. Enough,” Tizkar said with good cheer. “We will all get properly acquainted later, I promise. But first I want to show Enk the Wall.” He made a beckoning motion. “Come on, Enk. This way.”
Enk threaded a path through the throng, traveling in Tizkar’s wake, bristling at the fingers that lifted to caress his cheeks and fondle his hair. His hand knotted around the pommel of his sword, then he was free from them.
“As a general rule, you’re not fond of the common men, are you?” Tizkar slowed his steps to match Enk’s own.
“I like them well enough,” Enk said, releasing his sword. “What I can’t abide is being touched.”
“Ah, good. I had thought—good.”
Hushed, they walked on, two wounded souls moving through blackness marred by bubbles of light and jarring flashes of white. Tizkar gestured at their destination, a line of elevated offices that overlooked the factory floor. Enk’s eyes traced the wooden stairs that connected the two and his steps faulted. They seemed to claw at him with waiting malice, their horror lessened only by the wooden railing that rose alongside them then leveled to cordon the rectangle block of office space. Tizkar, who had already climbed halfway up the stairs, turned back to Enk, asking what was wrong.
Enk did not bother to explain. No one ever understood. To the well-bodied, stairs were just stairs, but to an asthmatic, they were a foe without equal. But no one, not even stairs, would keep him from his prey. This was the hunt of all hunts, some suffering was unavoidable.
He clutched the railing and forced himself upward. It was worse than he had imagined—it always was. Lungs, already tormented by the stroll across the factory floor, ached within a handful of steps. Tizkar frowned at him, but said nothing.
When they left the stairs behind, they wandered past four large offices that had been converted into living and sleeping areas and stopped at the threshold of the last.
“This has been my home of sorts for the last few days,” Tizkar said, opening the door with a flourish.
Enk followed Tizkar into the room and its blotchy gloom, the carpeted floorboards groaning beneath his feet. All before him was splotches of black, until Tizkar’s fumbling exploration resulted in the sparking of a wick and lemon-tinted light banished the dark.
“Sorry about that,” Tizkar said, lifting the lamp from the crock of a plush chair laden with stacks of last week’s newspapers. “I swore I had placed—never mind. What do you think?”
Enk wiped the sweat from his brow, trying but failing to conceal his wheezing. The room stood in complete contrast to Tizkar’s immaculate kept form. Moss-colored carpets with patches of their original hue shining through. White and black wallpaper yellowing with mold. An odd assortment of chairs and tables cluttered with dirty plates and half-finished cups.
“Over due for a good cleaning,” Enk said, curling his nose at the scent of sour milk.
“No, the Wall,” Tizkar hissed, then pointed. “This is where everything comes. Every piece of information we’ve gathered about the Scarlet Apron hangs here.”
Enk craned his neck from side to side to better take in the full magnitude of what he saw. The entire left wall was covered in hand-drawn portraits and handwritten notes. He approached it with a crow in his throat. He ran trembling fingers across the sketches. Each was a slightly different version of a middle-aged man. In some the man was shown as tall, in others he was short, but in all of them he car
ried a black cane.
“Is this—” Enk began.
“Yes,” came Tizkar’s response.
Enk pressed his knuckle into the wall. “I’m coming for you, do you hear me? I’m coming.”
■■■
Enk, what do you see?
When Enk was much younger, his uncle, Gezer, would probe his wits with this question. It was the opening salvo to an odd game of perception they often played. Tucked in some cozy nook—when his illness permitted—they would watch the gilded guests that had come to dine with his father and mother. With every observation made, his uncle would prod him to look deeper . . . to peer beneath the outer contours of erstwhile modalities, to pry hidden truths from flushed faces. But only once had he truly achieved something of what his uncle had wanted. The din of pressed piano keys had faded into murmurs, the bodies pinched and wheeling above dark panel floors had slowed into grotesque caricatures, and light had seemed to issue from their gaping maws.
“They are children,” he had said in a whisper, his voice clogged with wonder. “Children with parents on the inside. Wine . . . wine makes the parents go away.”
His uncle had spoken true.
Earned revelation was a pretty thing, like a miracle only you could see.
Enk sat in weak lamplight, crouched about a rough table on the factory floor. He stared out at a company of grieving mothers and fathers, stared at shades of wailing children peering through the glossiness of intoxicated eyes. All had gathered for the recounting of ones’ lost, all but Tizkar, who could be seen pacing through his office window.
“My daughter was a good girl,” Anad was saying, tracing the azure tendrils that climbed from the bowl of his wooden pipe with a chubby finger. “She was no streetwalker.”
Faces twitched as several women took umbrage at the slur, but no one interrupted the man, as was proper. This was a place of refuge, or so they had claimed before this whole ordeal began.
Mindripper Page 11
