On cue, the faker stopped his struggling and fell into a seeming swoon. It was all quite touching. Rebbec clung to him as healers came in to make the lad as comfortable as possible. They called it coma. Glacian called it an act. Did they listen? Of course not. Glacian was only a genius, and this lad only a scurvy rat who would chew off his own leg to get out of a trap. Who would they believe but the rat?
Rebbec lingered after the others were gone. She did her level best to assure her husband. He did his level best to convince her Yawgmoth was a lying monster and the boy a faker and killer. She did not hear—she could not. Rebbec was incapable of perceiving the darkness of humanity. She had no word for it. She could look right through a monster and never see him at all.
When she left that night, Glacian contented himself with a thought experiment. Thinking was his only refuge. Just now, he thought of powerstone dynamics. It was well established that crystals were charged when their cores were bombarded with enough radiance that the matter within turned to energy. Now Glacian wondered what happened to the space occupied by those particles.
In theory, matter existed only due to a compacting of space. Crumpled space trapped energy, slowing it into material form. Smooth space was like a sheet of paper in the rain, bombarded by water but gathering little of it. As the rain continues, though, the paper warps and gathers more rain. Rills rise and troughs deepen. Were the paper bombarded long enough, it would crumple and fold, trapping the water. So too, energy bombarded and warped space. The crumpled space trapped energy, converting it to matter. If so, when matter within a crystal was converted to energy, the space would unfold and straighten. Thus, charging a powerstone unfolded—even created—space. Perhaps every charged powerstone contained not only a vast store of energy but a vast area—a pocket dimension.
This thought experiment occupied Glacian’s mind during his convalescence. Once his strength had returned, he would perform true experiments to prove it all. Then Halcyon would know their genius had returned. Glacian would win back their ears.
Such were Glacian’s thoughts as he dropped into slumber. Such were his thoughts later—yes, he was more brilliant in his sleep than others were waking—when the hands clamped his throat closed. Suffocating, Glacian awoke to see that, once again, he had been the only one who saw the truth.
Gix sat astride him. The boy—it occurred to Glacian only then that this gaunt figure was really more a man than a boy—pinned his arms beneath phthitic knees and strangled him. Gix’s pallid face was red. When Glacian opened his eyes and met the young man’s gaze, the determination there stumbled. Gix must have glimpsed the true horror of his deed. The loss of Glacian would be not only to the citizens but also to the rats that ate what fell from the citizens’ table.
Hands tight around Glacian’s throat, Gix began to speak. “You did this to us. I used to think I had infected you, but you are the one who infected us both. You infected thousands in the caves.” Each time he said the word “infected,” spittle leapt from his lips. “That’s reason enough to kill you.”
Glacian had no air to form words, but his lips silently spoke them, “To murder me?”
“It’s not murder. It’s justice.”
“Kill me, and you’ll die.” Glacian’s response was little more than moving lips and a bit of whispered air.
Nostrils flaring in distaste, Gix eased his grip, allowing Glacian to suck a breath into his lungs.
It was a moment of triumph for Glacian. This one pretended to be a hero, but he had no resolve. When his own life was the issue, he would make any deal to save himself. Glacian had a damnable gift for seeing into the minds of lesser men, and every man he had met was lesser. Now, Glacian used the one lie that would save him. The lie of Yawgmoth.
He rasped, “Spare me, and Yawgmoth will spare you….Without Yawgmoth, you too are dead.”
Gix’s eyes narrowed still more. “I don’t need to kill you. It would only be a mercy. You and I both will die. Yawgmoth can’t save us.” This much impressed Glacian. Maybe this boy, this man, did glimpse the truth. “But better that you die in slow agony as I do, as my people do. Better that you live long enough to see us rise from the caves and kill your people and destroy your white haven.” With that, Gix released Glacian and climbed off of him. Even so, the Untouchable held a clenched fist above his foe’s face. “Raise the alarm, and I’ll kill you just for spite.”
With satisfaction, Glacian noted the stitched scars and blackened lesions across the young man’s body. “You’ll never get out of the city alive. You’ll never reach your caves.”
“I know ways down,” Gix said ominously, “and I know ways back up.” He bolted for the door.
Of course, Glacian raised the alarm. With his wrenched throat and weak lungs, he could do little more than mewl like a kitten. No one could hear him. The folk of Halcyon had stopped listening. Another man was stealing their ears.
* * *
—
Rebbec had not designed the Council Hall, and it was obvious. Massive, grim, gray, stodgy, symmetrical, fetid—for a century, this structure had been the height of Halcyon. It sat like a great cap atop a volcano. While all the other buildings of the city yearned toward it, this building presided over them with stout arrogance. It yearned toward nothing but itself. It was a shrine to the past. Eight massive drums held aloft the central octagon of the meeting space, which in turn shouldered the weight of the gray-stoned dome that shut out the light of heaven.
As Yawgmoth stood beside Rebbec just beneath that dome, he reminded himself that she had pluckily added a spiral stair and spire to it.
Just as pluckily, she argued now with the Elder Council.
Beneath each transept of the octagon sat a body of elders from one of the eight Thran city-states. The largest—Halcyon and Nyoron—had fifty elders each and the others fewer. At the head of each group stood an exalted podium where the eldest of each city-state presided. At the center of the dome stood the highest podium of all, a platform reached by two opposite sets of stairs.
Clustered beneath the central podium were the “leaders”—heads of clans, seers, and geniuses. Glacian would normally have been seated among those twenty, but for his phthisis. Glacian and his phthisis were the business of the day.
“I completely disagree,” Rebbec replied to an eldest’s objection. “This is not a Halcyte concern alone. The work of my husband—of Glacian—is studied by every artificer in the land. The devices that have most greatly elevated us are his. Powerstone use was innovated by him, but even that is not the issue. The issue is that each of our city-states is utterly dependent on powerstone technology. Our cities will collapse—sometimes literally—if that technology is removed.”
The gray-robed and masked moderator called upon the eldest of Losanon—a stately woman, half a head taller than most men and as thin as a statue.
“There is no evidence of this phthisis affecting anyone except your husband and the prison hordes in the caves. Indeed, your husband’s ailment came from the caves, not from the city. Why not simply double the guard at the caves to prevent any escape and suspend visiting rights until this plague has…run its course?”
Rebbec was poised to respond, but Yawgmoth spoke instead, “On the contrary, I have seen this plague in three other cities en route to here and have heard of it in the other four—”
“But always among the rabble,” interrupted the Eldest of Losanon. “Always among the poor indigent—”
“No,” Yawgmoth broke in. “There is evidence of infection among the citizenry of Halcyon, among folk who have had no contact with Untouchables. I have charted the progress of this plague in the Caves of the Damned and know the beginning signs of it. I have found six other cases in the city itself—and I have not conducted an extensive search. In fact, I would speculate that among the nearly four hundred of us gathered here, ten are infected and do not even know it.”
That caused a sensation. The
moderator stood from his chair, the symbol for silence. At the doors, the moderator’s enforcers tensed, ready to pluck from the crowd any who would not fall to silence. Quiet resumed. The moderator sat and indicated another speaker—the Eldest of Chignon.
The man was portly and privileged, accustomed to gaining his way outside of the Council Hall by diverting issues that might arise.
“These reports are alarming, surely, perhaps alarmist. You are one man, Yawgmoth. Three years ago, you were a banished man among lepers—an enemy of the state. You practice a brand of healing that repels most of us. Why should we listen to you? Why should we take your word? Why should we believe you have ceased to be our enemy and become our friend?”
“Don’t take my word,” Yawgmoth replied, shaking his head. “I want you to find out for yourself. I’m asking for a corps of your brightest minds to gather and see what I have found. They can judge for themselves. I’m asking for the chance to prove to you the reality and threat of this disease. Those who think me a charlatan can report their findings to this body. On the other hand, those who are convinced by my findings, my methods, could join me in searching for a cure.”
The Eldest of Nyoron was granted the floor. “In your written proposal, you asked for more than a corps of observers. You asked for facilities, for equipment, for the right to screen citizens….”
“Without such things, how am I to prove the reality of this plague?” Yawgmoth pleaded in exasperation. He flung his hands out. “Perhaps Rebbec was too quick to say this was an issue of public health rather than the health of one man. But I would think, after all that Glacian has done for this empire, that it would supply a single wing of a single infirmary in which a small group of earnest seekers could do everything in their power to find a cure for him. Even if you will not allot the space and money to save yourselves, won’t you allot it to save Glacian?”
The moderator recognized Jameth, Eldest of Halcyon.
The woman stood. She was a regal figure in red, with high cheekbones and rheumy eyes. Jameth opened an envelope and patiently unfolded a note within.
“Since you mention Leader Glacian, I feel it is time to read this. I received it by messenger this morning. It has Glacian’s seal. He asked me to read this message to the assembled Council:
Friends,
From my sickbed—dare I not call it my deathbed?—I write this urgent request and warning. Shun the man Yawgmoth. He was once rightly declared an enemy of the state and exiled as such. I plead that he be exiled once more. I have been under his scalpel and his supposed ministrations for too long, have endured excruciating programs, and have watched my body decay more rapidly from Yawgmoth than from phthisis. He is a charlatan at best and at worst a monster. I did not wish his return nor do I condone that he remain among us. Unless he is exiled, I am confident he will bring us again to civil war. If he is, as my wife supposes, my only hope, then I am consigned to die. I would rather die than live any longer as a prisoner to his violent manipulations.
Therefore, I propose that the council vote immediately to banish the man Yawgmoth, declaring him now and forever an enemy of the Thran Empire.
Glacian of Halcyon
No sooner had the final word emerged from Jameth’s mouth, than in other mouths came shouts of approval, seconding the motion.
Yawgmoth looked grimly at Rebbec, but she clutched his hand. Her strength seemed to flow across to him.
The moderator stood once again and said, “I cannot allow a vote on this proposal when Yawgmoth’s own proposal remains to be considered.”
“I suggest the two be combined,” Yawgmoth said suddenly. “If I am not granted the facilities and assistants and provisions I requested in my proposal, I will leave this city. I will leave this empire. I might as well be banished. If you vote that you do not believe in my work, I will leave you to this phthisis, which you also do not believe in. My friends, it will bring you to civil war, not I. Civil war and utter annihilation. Disbelieve Yawgmoth to your loss. Disbelieve the phthisis to your peril. I suggest these two motions be combined into a single proposal. Those in favor of Glacian’s terms for my banishment shall vote yeah, and those in favor of my terms for continued research shall vote nay.”
Many calls came to second that motion.
“Then it has come to a vote,” said the moderator. “All those who favor Glacian’s call for the immediate banishment of this man Yawgmoth, speak aye.”
The response was sullen and immediate. It echoed in the dome above as though the stolid building itself had spoken.
Yawgmoth gripped Rebbec’s hands, sending back to her the confidence she had granted him.
“All those opposed to banishment and in favor of Yawgmoth’s request for facilities, personnel, supplies, and so forth to continue his study, let them say nay.”
The sound was almost identical, though perhaps a bit louder if only for the resolve in the voices of those who spoke.
“In the opinion of the moderator, the motion for banishment carries.”
Calls came for a hand count, and the moderator granted it. Each of the eldests of the cities turned to face his contingents, conducting the same vote with a show of hands.
Though Yawgmoth continued to cling to Rebbec, his attention was elsewhere. He hawkishly watched the Halcyte contingent. He observed those who voted for banishment. Every face was imprinted upon the black back of his mind.
“They won’t do it,” Rebbec whispered to him. “They won’t condemn us.”
Yawgmoth glanced down at her. “Do you mean they won’t condemn you and Glacian, or you and me?”
Her eyes were querulous, almost hurt. “To condemn you would be to condemn Glacian.”
Yawgmoth only nodded. His jaw muscles flexed beneath a sheen of black stubble.
The counts were tallied, the totals taken to the moderator.
She stood and announced, “The healer Yawgmoth will have his facilities and observers. The eight eldests shall see to it.”
* * *
—
Rebbec was at home here now. It was midnight. The moon was a grand sickle that scratched along the crystal foundation. Powerstones loomed now in starry rings all around. Light chased the myriad facets and rose in icy ghosts of doom. She was home here now.
Glacian’s illness was horrible. He was her soul mate. Together—artifice and art—they had transformed the empire. When he fell ill, she ached for him but did not fear for him. She had felt somehow that she, by mere exertion of will, could keep him alive, could bring him healing. It seemed impossible for him to die while she lived.
Now, no doom was impossible. The specters of the future had risen from artifice and art. If the Thran continued in the way pioneered by Glacian and Rebbec, they were doomed to die. If they abandoned that way, they could only descend through the icy umbra of the heights they had once ascended.
This place, loftiest structure in the empire—it was the utter embodiment of a hope for heaven that led inexorably to hell. Even as it hung here, it poisoned the people. Even as it gave them visions glorious throughout the days, it terrified their nights with relentless death.
Rebbec was at home here now. She was at home among the ghosts. She hoped, even, to catch the phthisis that ravaged her love and her land. Then she would be one with them. In all her ascending, she’d left them behind.
Only Yawgmoth could save them now. Only Yawgmoth and his mad medicine.
* * *
—
The climb down had been hard. The climb back up was sheer agony.
Gix’s body had weakened with each moment since he had released Glacian. Part of it was the phthisis, of course. The black infection in his sternum had festered. Part of it—the larger part—was a niggling fear. Was survival more important to him than principle? Perhaps Gix had spared Glacian only because killing the man would mean his own death. He hated that thought. It wasn�
��t true—it couldn’t be true….It wouldn’t be true once this raid was over.
The Halcytes would pay for what they had done. Glacian would pay.
When hosts of the damned flooded up through the sewers to drag them down in their own offal, the Halcytes would begin to understand their crimes. When Untouchables drove them to their knees and made them kiss the suppurating wounds on their knuckles, the citizens would know their guilt. When garbage people leapt atop them and stomped on their backs, the Halcytes would never forget.
Only thoughts like these made the wretched climb possible. Gix’s body was racked with pain. When he had descended to the Caves of the Damned, he had been alone, driven downward by the news he bore to his people. Now as he climbed, he dragged hundreds of others up with him.
At least this time, the awful news he carried was meant not for the damned but for the demons themselves.
The infirmary wing granted to Yawgmoth had a glorious view of the upper city. Through a high bank of windows, the Thran Temple shone down over every apparatus. Minute images of Rebbec and her workers were cast in tiny rainbows of refracted light throughout the room. They swam slowly across the backs of the twenty-four clustered observers, across the bent neck of Yawgmoth, and across the agonized face of Glacian.
“Bad enough you murder me tissue by tissue,” Glacian growled as Yawgmoth gingerly peeled another layer of skin from a large lesion on the man’s stomach, “but to do it all with public sanction.”
“You see these layers here?” Yawgmoth asked the observers, who craned to see. In the past months, he had convinced them of the reality of the disease. “See, even an organ as seemingly simple as skin has differentiated layers, different tissues for different functions. The body is an organism—that is, a thing composed of organs. Each has a distinct role. Disease and dysfunction are not a matter of magic but of a breakdown of one or more organs.” Yawgmoth returned to the lesion, peeling back flesh. “Do you see how the phthisis has different effects in the different levels?”
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