Towers Fall

by Karina Sumner-Smith

  They should have looked like common thugs, and yet… didn’t. Shai looked from one to the other, trying think through her haze of panic. Their clothing is new, she realized. Mismatched though the pieces were, she saw no fraying edges, no patches, no rips or stains. Their weapons, too, seemed pristine—and worn almost for show.

  They have magic. Real magic, not the bare glints and glimmers of the ground-bound poor. Despite their attempt at disguise, they used magic unthinkingly, like a reflex—something no Lower City dweller ever did.

  They’re City citizens, Shai thought in shock. Their accents, when they spoke, only confirmed it. City citizens here, acting like common thugs. But why?

  She hesitated, caught between mounting a defense and rushing back to the meeting room, when a sound from the stairwell drew her attention. Footsteps, slow and steady. Climbing. She moved closer. A man appeared, and unlike the armed thugs that surrounded him, he reminded her of a real City citizen: neat and clean and civilized. A business man.

  He showed no surprise to see the guard slumped on the concrete landing with one side of his face red in a way that promised a bruise’s dark bloom.

  “Hit this one a bit hard,” one of the intruders said, apologetic.

  The City man didn’t bother to shrug. “Leave him.” He resumed his ascent.

  “Not much farther,” said one of the others, consulting a device. “Four floors up and down a hall.”

  The meeting room.

  Suddenly Shai remembered the tracking spell within Xhea calling out, singing that strange, high song. Was this who it had called—this man and his makeshift army? The thought made her go cold, any plans for a defense unmade like a spool unwinding. She fled, following the line of her tether.

  Outside the meeting room, the two guards she’d first seen had already been felled, and two City thugs stood outside the door, leaning against the wall as they waited. Inside, the councilors had barricaded the door with a stack of chairs.

  “Are you okay?” Xhea asked, seeing Shai return.

  Shai nodded. “They’ll be here soon.” She relayed what she’d seen as quickly as possible, impatient as Xhea repeated her words to the councilors. Every moment, the intruders grew closer; the businessman, whoever he was, was coming here. She heard, at last, footsteps in the hall outside.

  “The tracking spell,” Shai said. “Xhea, could this…?”

  Xhea shook her head, her eyes never leaving the barricaded door. There was no time to run, or any way to break free. Nowhere, in this bare room, to hide.

  “City citizens?” asked Councilor Lorris. “But who? Why?”

  No one spared him so much as a glance.

  The door moved, hitting the stacked chairs with a clatter. The chairs shifted—but the councilors knew their business; they did not fall.

  Shai felt a surge of fear and anger, the emotions confused and tangled. She could not tell which were hers and which were Xhea’s—because magic flowed between them, hard and fast, though neither of them had called it. Though, now, only one of them could.

  In that moment, Shai felt as she had in the hours just after their renewed joining: more solid. More real.

  Almost alive.

  And angry. So very angry. Is this how Xhea feels? If so, Shai couldn’t imagine how the girl stayed so seemingly calm, her face impassive.

  “A barred door?” called a muffled voice—the businessman. “Is this any way to treat a guest?”

  Lorn’s head came up and he stared at the door, taken aback.

  “Is that…?” Emara whispered. Lorn nodded.

  “A guest?” shouted Councilor Tranten, her voice sharp. “Don’t mistake a blade for an invitation.”

  Lorn raised his hand, asking for silence, and though the councilor chafed at the request, her brow drawn low and lips thinning, she complied.

  “Remove the barricade.” Lorn moved forward, grasping a chair and hauling it aside. Others reluctantly joined him—all but Xhea, who clutched her cane, and Councilor Tranten, who looked like she would burn the chairs to ash with her glare before she deigned to touch one, never mind move it aside.

  When the last chair was gone, Lorn swung the door wide. Two armed intruders entered, hard and fast, their weapons drawn—but Shai was ready. Before the councilors could do more than flinch, Shai’s magic flowed from her outstretched hands.

  A wall, she thought. Clear as glass, hard as iron.

  Power shimmered into shape at the thought, sheer force of magic accomplishing what skill could not. She could not have made the stun-spells that the intruders deployed against Edren’s security; she could not have created the spells on their weapons. Yet this she could do without hesitation.

  She wanted to laugh as the first thug hit the barrier and stumbled back, dazed; the second man halted just in time, his surprised expression almost comical. Shai wanted to laugh but could not; the sound stuck in her throat, tasting like tears.

  Lorn was on his feet, chairs ignored, his calm expression and steady breathing belying the sudden tension in the room. It was Emara, standing at his side, who opened and shut her empty hands in frustration, as if wishing she could reach for the blades she no longer wore.

  “Shai,” Lorn said. “Let them come.”

  But he hadn’t seen what she had—didn’t understand how quickly their spells might lash out. Though blood had not been shed in this room, threat of its fall was heavy all around.

  She had failed the guards outside, she knew that now. She’d been too slow to arrive, slower to react. She would not fail again—not when Xhea’s life was at risk.

  “Shai.” There was steel in Lorn’s tone, the word sliding toward command.

  “Don’t make me,” she said to him. “Don’t do this.”

  But her voice, unheard, echoed into silence. Shai closed her eyes and let the spell fall.

  Xhea did not recognize the man who came through the door, flanked by armed guards. She was, apparently, in the minority. More than one of the gathered councilors muttered darkly as he arrived.

  “Lozan,” Councilor Tranten said as if the word were a curse.

  Lozan? But that’s—

  “A Tower.” Shai’s expression was dark with distaste. “I knew it.”

  More than that, Tower Lozan was Edren’s primary trading partner in the City. Yet Xhea could not whisper to Shai without drawing attention in what was an already tense room.

  “Mr. Deryan,” Lorn said carefully. “This is a surprise.”

  “Mr. Edren. Lor…” The man rubbed his neck as if in embarrassment—clearly feigned. “Lorren, was it?”

  “Lorn.”

  “Ah, yes, Lorn. My apologies. I remember that now, from my aide’s notes from our first meeting.”

  “Our meeting three days ago, yes,” Lorn replied dryly. “A meeting that was scheduled a week in advance, I recall. Something about your busy schedule…?”

  “As always.” He laughed as if at a shared joke, while the room around him stayed silent. From the looks on the councilors’ faces, Xhea wasn’t the only one who wanted to hit the guy in the mouth with a rock. With four armed and seemingly ill-tempered men standing with weapons drawn, even Xhea didn’t consider it for long.

  “Please,” Deryan said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. Councilors, feel free to take your seats.” It didn’t sound like an invitation. Slowly, the councilors moved to comply, taking chairs from the pile and returning to their places around the table under the watchful eyes of the Tower guards. Xhea followed suit, dragging a chair across the floor as loudly as she could, and delighting in the metal squeal that resulted.

  Deryan watched. Xhea felt him notice her, picking her out as the one who did not belong. It wasn’t difficult: in amongst the skyscraper’s leadership, here she was, a scruffy teen with ash-stained hands, a twisted wood cane, and chiming, braid-tangled hair.

  You wonder why I’m here? Xhea met his gaze without flinching. Held it. Keep wondering.

  At last Lorn was seated, Emara at his side, and only th
en did Deryan gesture for a chair to be brought to him.

  “Now,” he said, “you must be curious why I’m here.”

  “It looks,” Lorn said slowly, “like you are here to take advantage of our current situation.” He cast a meaningful look at the four armed men that covered the room with their weapons.

  Xhea was startled by Lorn’s tone—or, rather, Addis’s. For though it was Lorn’s voice, deep and resonant, she heard only Addis in those careful, modulated words. She’d barely met the true Lorn, though knew he would have tried to kill Lozan’s representative by now—or made a show of the attempt. But Addis only stared, his face revealing nothing, and Xhea imagined that she could see the true spirit that lived inside his brother’s body.

  “Come now,” Deryan said. “A Tower assault force stealing from its allies, ground-bound though they might be? Oh, I don’t know. Doesn’t seem like it would be good for business, now does it?”

  “Nor for one’s sterling reputation,” Lorn replied dryly.

  “Sterling reputation. I like that.” The man smiled. “No, we’re just here to discuss a few routine matters.”

  “Routine matters require armed guards?”

  “You had armed guards outside this very door, my dear man. Trying times and all that.”

  Armed guards that Shai had said were unconscious and incapacitated. At least Xhea couldn’t feel any newly made ghosts. That was something.

  “In light of the Spire’s recent pronouncement, I was reviewing Edren’s file. The history between our organizations goes back many years, does it not? Some forty-five years, all told.”

  “From when my grandmother ruled, yes.”

  “Indeed, indeed.” Deryan looked pensive. “And during that time, we have each kept to the letter of our bargain—isn’t that so? Lozan providing tools and materials to make repairs, plans for spells beyond your knowledge, and Edren paying in… well, any number of valuable things. Renai. Raw materials. Warm bodies.”

  Xhea’s heart sank. Edren had sold them people?

  She wasn’t naive; she knew that the Towers brought Lower City dwellers above, indentured them or paid them pittances, sometimes even dangling hope of citizenship as the lure to encourage more work, longer hours, less renai. She knew that some people who went above were never heard from again, and though she hoped that some had found happy endings, she wasn’t so foolish as to believe it.

  It was only knowing that Orren did not have the lock on that particular market, for all that she’d scorned them for it. Edren sends gladiators, she guessed, or the people who train them. She had heard a rumor that out on the City’s fringes one could find rougher entertainments than thought proper in the central Towers, games of wit and spell and blood that mirrored those fought in Edren’s arena. What better place to find trained participants?

  At least, she hoped he meant gladiators.

  “I don’t really see—” began Councilor Lorris, his flushed-red face puffing up in indignation.

  “Councilor,” Lorn said sharply, and the man fell silent. Lorn looked again to his guest. “Yes,” he said.

  “And—remind me—what was the term of our most recent agreement?”

  “Five years from date of signing. An agreement my father made eight months ago.”

  “Ah, yes, that’s right.” Deryan nodded. “It seems that we have a bit of a problem here, you and I.” He gestured around the room, as if to include Edren’s angry ruling council in the conversation. “Edren is going to be in violation of that contract.”

  “Explain.”

  “The contract stipulates delivery deadlines, minimum production thresholds, that sort of thing. Yet you and yours are being evicted from the premises. It seems unlikely you will be able to meet even a fraction of those requirements if you are cast into the wasteland.” Deryan pointed toward the window, seemingly to indicate the ruins beyond the Lower City. “Similarly—and I hope you’ll forgive my directness—but if you’re dead, you will be likewise unable to provide either services or recompense.” He smiled as if at some witticism.

  Xhea ground her teeth in an effort not to speak.

  Though her magic was bound tight, anger had always bid it flow. It pushed now against the bindings—pushed hard—and she gasped at that sudden pressure. The binding spell did not bend, did not yield; it stole the magic and twisted it.

  Xhea knew what was coming. She grabbed the chair’s armrests to keep herself still.

  Her bones vibrated as the spell called out. Its high, sweet voice sang in time to her thudding heartbeat. Goosebumps lifted across her skin.

  Here, the spell seemed to say. I’m here, right here.

  It was all that Xhea could do not to sag in her chair, eyes half-lidded, and lose herself in that song. Calm was not the right word; it was like being high, lost in a wave of perfect sensation. If one of the Tower guards turned a weapon on her, she might not move, might not rise—and that realization, which should have terrified her, brought no fear.

  Shai knelt before Xhea and reached for her hand—then flinched. Instead, she leaned forward and looked into Xhea’s eyes as if she knew how hard it was for her to cling to this place, this moment, and not be swept away by the spell’s song.

  “Look at me,” she said. Xhea blinked and stared. She suddenly noticed the way Shai’s pale eyelashes curled, and that there were small, dark flecks in the gleaming silver of Shai’s irises. Brighter Shai glowed, and brighter; bright enough that Xhea could not look away, did not want to.

  “Can you control it?” Shai asked.

  Xhea shook her head. But she was not angry anymore—and, calmed, her magic no longer fought the binding, depriving the spell of its fuel. Bit by bit the sound faded, the shivering sensation dwindling to nothing until she only sat, disoriented and uncomfortable, clinging to the arms of a battered chair.

  She could breathe again. She could think.

  Carefully, Xhea looked around; in the whole room, only one living face was turned toward her. Not Lorn or Emara, not even Deryan, but one of the Tower guards. He blinked, looking at Xhea in no little confusion—and then to the space where Shai knelt, haloed in magical light. He rubbed his eyes with the back of one hand.

  “Obviously, you are concerned by our situation,” Lorn was saying, his words calm and measured. “We thank you for that. I assume you’re here to offer assistance?”

  Despite her lingering discomfort, Xhea wanted to laugh. As if such an offer would be accompanied by armed personnel, unconscious guards, and hostages.

  Deryan inclined his head. “Of course we’re concerned. Loss of this agreement could have unfortunate impacts on Lozan’s operating revenues for years. I’m here to see that any such losses are minimized.”

  Emara spoke, her expression bland. “How charitable.”

  He continued as if there had been no interruption. “We are seeking whatever payment may be made now. There might be some individuals who would be of value to us. Of course, compensation would be at a lower rate than usual, given the extra effort and renai required to feed and house individuals at short notice, and for such an extended period.” Again, that smile. “After all, our Tower is not a hotel.”

  “How many of our people might be of value?”

  Xhea had the sudden feeling that Lorn would sell every last Edren citizen if it would save their lives. She did not know whether the sudden pressure in her chest came from hope or dismay. Maybe both.

  “Perhaps thirty? Thirty-five? We would have to see the individuals in question first, of course.”

  Edren had hundreds of citizens inside the skyscraper—thousands in their expanded territory. And Xhea doubted that Lozan would be interested in those most in need of saving: the babies and children, the pregnant women, the elderly.

  “Even so,” Deryan continued, “that leaves a lot of debt unaccounted for.”

  Lorn laced his fingers together, and Xhea had the feeling it was to keep from curling his hands into fists. For all that his face seemed impassive, his dark brown ski
n gleamed with sweat.

  “Debt,” he said, “for services that you have not provided?”

  “I see you need to review your contracts more carefully. I’ll have a copy sent with the relevant sections highlighted. But yes, while Lozan is responsible for providing variable levels of supplies in response to stated need, including advances against future needs, Edren must provide regular payment—or pay penalties. Penalty or contractual service for which, I’m afraid, you’re on the hook.”

  “What is it you want?” Lorn ground out, his façade cracking. Emara stiffened, and no few of the councilors; it seemed only Lorn’s raised hand, asking for silence and stillness, kept them from doing more.

  Deryan’s smile was cool, calm, professional—and did absolutely nothing to hide his delight. “To begin, we’ll take your magical storage coils,” he said, “and all they contain.”

  Lorn did not speak; he did not have to. Nearly every councilor around the table was on their feet, Lorn’s earlier request for silence entirely ignored. He did not seem to mind. The councilors shouted, their words overlapping in anger and outrage.

  “You can’t possibly—”

  “—Edren’s entire net worth—”

  “I’ll see your blighted head on a pole before—”

  Xhea couldn’t help herself: she laughed. And once she started laughing, she could not stop. Exhausted, her fear and anger gave way to something that was probably hysteria.

  “Of course,” Xhea said at last, wiping away her tears of mirth. “Of course.”

  “What?” Shai asked. “What is it?”

  But it wasn’t only Shai who was staring at her—wasn’t only Shai who was asking her what was so funny. No one else in the room seemed amused.

  The storage coils, she thought, smothering laughter. The magical savings of every Edren citizen—of the skyscraper itself—taken all at once.