Elemental

by Steven Savile

  When the Emperor wasn’t away making war, he strode about at Myriel’s side like a senior disciple, with a sheaf of plans tucked beneath his arm. Indeed, except for her trusted old foreman, the Emperor was the only person allowed to see the plans. At night they sat in his study in chairs of equal height, laying out brilliant designs for paved floors and ventilated bathing chambers. The grand main entrance would face east over a large paved plaza for public gatherings. High above this, Myriel placed the Balcony of Victory, to be built in the exact shape and size of an imperial warship’s prow. The sides would be carved with emblems of every nation the Emperor had brought beneath his sway, so that he might stand, literally and figuratively, on the backs of those he’d conquered. It would be a potent symbol, just the sort of imagery Myriel excelled in creating.

  The gardens surrounding the palace would be miniature wildernesses, full of game, fish pools, and airy pleasure pavilions connected by underground passages to the rooms of his wives and concubines.

  A consummate perfectionist in all things, the Emperor decreed that the inhabitants of his new home be chosen with equal care. As the fourth year of building came to an end, many servants, aging wives, and concubines who’d lost their savor were sold off or given away. Lovely fresh girls from every land were bought or captured and held in readiness for His August Majesty’s new harems. Cadres of handsome little boys, the sons of peasants and merchants, were gathered up and held in readiness to be cut as eunuchs at the height of their youthful bloom.

  Of course, some sacrifices had to be made. Fields went untilled when more laborers were pressed into service at the building site. Trade unrelated to the Emperor’s project had been neglected, as were the courts and guilds.

  There had been difficulties of other sorts, as well. A shipload of a particular clay Myriel required from distant Kolchi brought rats bearing a new and terrible sickness that had killed hundreds. Foreign slaves brought their false gods with them and cults had sprung up, luring many of the city’s youth away from the gods of their fathers with fleshy rites and mysteries.

  Despite the wondrous nature of the palace taking shape above the city, the people began to murmur at the excesses of the Emperor, and to speak openly against the foreign builder whose demands had brought such hardships.

  These bitter mutterings eventually reached the Emperor’s ears.

  “Don’t be troubled by such fleeting ills,” his master builder counseled. “What are these things compared to the great work we are engaged in? A mere blink of the eye in the course of time. Soon the masses will understand what is being wrought here. This palace will stand for ages as a symbol of your rule.”

  By mutual agreement, Myriel laid some plans in secret. The hallmarks of her craft were the cunning tricks and eye-catching details she hid in abundance in each great house she created. In the final months of each project, she and her chief foreman would work long into the night, installing clever secret devices to be discovered later by the occupants of the house.

  “Surprise me!” the Emperor had urged, delighted at the prospect.

  “For you, August One, wonders without precedent,” Myriel promised.

  She never revealed to anyone where these lay, and it often took years before they were all discovered. The inadvertent pressure of a hand on a section of mural might reveal a clever bit of mechanical statuary. Sculptures burst to life as fountains months after construction was finished, a simple trick accomplished with hidden water pipes plugged with salt. She built whole scenes of figures that moved, seemingly on their own, when levers were manipulated by hidden weights or water wheels. Her singing mechanical birds were in such demand that she’d finally grown bored with them and refused to create any more.

  Other effects were pleasing in their simplicity—magnifying lenses set into windowpanes of a tower room which allowed the occupant to view distant vistas more closely, or wind chimes hidden in air ducts that tinkled pleasantly only in certain weather. At the manor of Lord Oris, an astrologer of some repute, she positioned small round windows of colored glass in such a way that each was illuminated just once a year by a specific alignment of the sun or moon, much to the delight of her patron.

  As a final touch, she gave each structure a secret name, which was only revealed by the discovery of one of the secret devices. In the water gardens of King Makir, mineral salts impregnated into the basin of the largest fountain reacted with the sulfurous water of that region so that the words “Flowing Haven” appeared in blue script a year to the day after the first water flowed in. In the case of the astrologer, Oris, the words “Celestial Eye” appeared the night after the house was completed when the moon struck a particular pane of glass, an alignment that would not reoccur for decades.

  She was thought to be a wizard by some, and accused of witchcraft more than once by the ignorant. She smiled at this and made no answer for, in truth, engineering and imagination were all the magic she needed. With these she managed wonders which endured.

  Construction proceeded on schedule, and Myriel was able to promise a dedication of the completed building on the occasion of the Emperor’s fiftieth birthday. In honor of this, she had installed an equal number of secret delights throughout the palace, the most she had ever incorporated in a single structure.

  “And have you decided the name for my house?” he asked.

  “Ah, my dear Emperor!” she laughed, for so she called him now, after working so closely with him all these years. “That was decided the very day you engaged my services.”

  For weeks at a time Myriel was able to lose herself in the joy of creation, watching her masterwork rise and take shape under her direction. It was always like this—the excitement of the task at hand, to be followed by the inevitable bittersweet melancholy of its end. For her, the creation of a building was like the act of love—passionate, exciting, exhilarating while it lasted, but leaving one empty and dark inside when it was over.

  This time, however, she knew there would be no afterward. Each block set in place shortened her life. Several of her principal artists had died already. Others had slipped away in the night, leaving apprentices to complete the final installations.

  This spurred her on, especially in the final days as she and the foreman hurried to complete the last of their unique devices.

  In the end, the Emperor was spared the unpleasant necessity of killing his master builder. Myriel was found dead in her bed with a peaceful smile on her lips, just a week before the dedication. Her old foreman lay on the floor beside her, apparently having killed himself out of grief at his mistress’s passing.

  The Emperor declared two whole days of mourning, an unprecedented honor for a mere craftswoman, and the people of the city grumbled even as they ate the funeral feast. This foreigner had broken their backs, brought disease and strangers to the very heart of the Empire. In their hearts some even grumbled against the Emperor himself, though none were fool enough to let such thoughts past their teeth.

  The great day arrived at last. On the morning of his fiftieth birthday, the Emperor put on his finest new robes and led a formal procession up the hill to the new palace. Accompanied by the court, his two sons, his new favorite wives, and their new favorite eunuchs (a rather sullen company, if he’d chosen to notice), he set about exploring the pillared courts and dazzling chambers. There were 150 in all, not even counting the kitchens and servants’ quarters.

  Evidence of Mistress Myriel’s genius was soon discovered. In the audience chamber, invisible bells tinkled softly as rain, but it was impossible to find where the sound came from. The elaborate throne was the last work of the famous wood carver, Delio, before his death. On the throne’s velvet cushion lay a folded parchment. Inside, written in the builder’s precise hand, the Emperor read, “Be seated, and behold.” Grinning with anticipation, the Emperor sat down, and instantly stone gorgon heads on the walls to either side sprang to life as fountains. Water gushed from their eyes and drained away through into marble basins set into the floor.<
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  Everyone gasped and applauded, then gasped again a moment later when a section of wall directly opposite the throne turned on hidden pivots to reveal an elegant mirror of polished silver. It was very large, and positioned so exactly that the Emperor was framed like a portrait. By some trick of the mirror grinder’s art, he appeared twice the size of the people standing on either side of him.

  “So many devices just in one room alone!” the Emperor exclaimed, admiring the cleverly distorted reflection. “She truly was a genius. What a loss her death is to us!”

  Still, none of these devices had revealed what he most longed to know: the name of his great house. Gathering his robes in his hands, this conqueror of nations dashed on from room to room like an excited child on a treasure hunt.

  He and his courtiers found more of Myriel’s notes here and there. One at the house temple instructed the priest to light the little stack of wood laid ready on the altar. When this was done, the enameled doors of the sanctuary beyond it swung open by themselves to reveal magnificent golden statues of the Emperor’s house gods. When the small fire died down, the doors closed again. No one had ever seen such a wonder, and the Emperor ordered that the mechanism be found and implemented in all his public temples to boost the revenues.

  He was slightly disappointed to find no obvious devices in the imperial bedchamber, or any hint from the builder. But all agreed it was a magnificent room all the same. The floor, made of blood-red Mylilian marble, was so highly polished that it appeared wet. The vaulted ceiling was supported by graceful pillars of gilded black marble, and frescoed with a scene of the Emperor’s first victory at the age of seventeen, over the king of Mylila.

  “I remember that horse!” He craned his neck to take in the scene. His rearing black charger might have been rendered from life, right down to the white scar on its flank. Bound in golden chains, the vanquished king cowered on his knees under the beast’s hooves as his wailing family looked on. Following popular convention, the painter had used many of the Emperor’s friends and advisors as models for the secondary figures. They chattered and laughed aloud as they found themselves among the conquering soldiers.

  “Why, look!” the Emperor said to his eldest son, a strong, bearded warrior. “There you are, carrying off one of the king’s daughters.”

  “And there’s me, pillaging a dead general,” his younger son observed, delighted to find himself immortalized.

  “And there’s that builder of yours, too. I might have known she’d show up sooner or later,” his Lord Chancellor chuckled. “I suppose it’s not too arrogant a gesture, given the rendering.”

  It took the Emperor a moment to find Myriel, for the stupid artist had placed her among the prisoners. There she stood, a grave, ragged figure, watching the conquerors with accusing eyes. And wasn’t that her foreman lying dead at her feet?

  “How very odd,” the Emperor murmured, frowning.

  “A statement of modesty, perhaps?” his eldest son suggested.

  “Ah, but that’s no worthy legacy for her, not worthy at all. Make a note, scribe. We must have that fresco altered. I don’t want to stare up at her looking like that year after year, poor woman!”

  “The original artist is not longer available, August Majesty,” the scribe murmured apologetically as he scribbled a note.

  “My Emperor, the people have filled the plaza, awaiting your birthday address,” his chamberlain reminded him.

  “Ah yes!” The Emperor reluctantly let himself be led away; he’d rather hoped to find the secret name and announce it on this most auspicious of days.

  The Balcony of Victory lay just down the corridor. It had been fitted with large double doors of oak and gold, matched in shape to the large windows on either side, and secured with a large lock of Myriel’s own design. With a flourish, the Emperor took out the key she’d given him. Even this humble article was a work of art, made of polished steel damascened with gold, just like a fine sword. Inserting it into the lock, the Emperor imagined all his descendents doing the same, generation after generation, stepping out onto this place where only royal feet might tread, to survey their people. The key turned easily, and the great doors swung open to reveal yet another marvel. The Emperor’s family and ministers gaped and clapped, and an expectant roar went up from the crowd below.

  Just as Myriel had planned, the white marble balcony jutted gracefully out from the front of the palace in the shape of a warship’s prow. Perfect in every detail, down to the ribs and planking in her sides, it seemed as if the Emperor’s own flagship had been sculpted from snow and launched to sail the blue summer sky. Two stone steps had been set into the peak of the prow, so that he might be more visible to the crowds below.

  The Emperor’s heart swelled with gratitude for the dead builder. “Come,” he said to his eldest son. “Let the people see you, their future emperor, standing beside me this happy day.”

  “Look, Father,” his son said. “She’s left you another message.”

  This parchment fluttered on the white marble deck a few feet from the doorway, secured under a lozenge of red jade carved with the builder’s seal.

  The Emperor forgot the crowd for a moment as a thrill of anticipation ran through him. “Come, let’s see what it says!”

  The prince retrieved the folded sheet and presented it to the Emperor. Inside, they read, “Behold the name, writ in gold.”

  “The name! But where?” The Emperor looked around again and caught a glint of yellow light on the top step at the prow. “The secret name! She’s set it there so that I can announce it today, just as I’d hoped. Wondrous woman!”

  The two men hurried forward and bent to read the lettering.

  Farewell

  The Emperor just had time to frown over the puzzle before the cables that held the entire balcony in careful balance—cables much tested by the clever builder to be just strong enough to support the stonework, but not the additional and carefully directed weight of the Emperor himself, much less of that of his heir—snapped.

  Builders who came to survey the wreckage later said it was a testament to Myriel’s skill that the balcony came away so cleanly, arcing out just enough not to damage the impeccable facade. The balcony itself smashed to bits, of course, not to mention the Emperor and his son, and a number of his subjects who’d been standing just below. An expanse of costly paving stones was ruined as well, but an ample supply of replacements were discovered stacked in a storeroom soon after, making repairs a simple matter.

  Before the crowd could recover from this catastrophe, the balcony doors crashed down onto the shattered marble. This released several large wooden plugs in the doorframe above, which fell out and in turn released two columns of sand. These leaked away, gently lowering a stone slab into place across the open doorway to seal the aperture. Made of the same shining white marble as the rest of the house, this glistening panel was inlaid with golden letters tall enough to be read as far away as the city market:

  Perfection

  Which proved in the long run to be an ironic and misleading name for this particular palace. Many people later shook their heads and sucked their teeth in grudging sympathy for the dead builder, who’d left such a misnamed legacy as her greatest work.

  For in spite of all the care Mistress Myriel had put into its design, and her considerable personal oversight of each stage of construction, it was not long before a number of serious flaws were discovered, not the least of which was the faulty construction of the ceiling vaults in several rooms, including that of the Imperial bedchamber. While this did solve the problem of the displeasing ceiling mural, it also crushed the Emperor’s only remaining heir in his bed.

  Stranger still, the hidden passageways of the harems and eunuchs’ quarters, which were supposed to lead to the garden pavilions, emerged instead far outside the palace walls, in the oddest and most obscure places.

  The Compound

  BY MICHAEL MARSHALL SMITH

  Like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, there is
bestselling science fiction and horror author Michael Marshall Smith and his alter ego, bestselling psychological thriller author Michael Marshall. The former is responsible for the novels Only Forward, Spares, One of Us, The Vaccinator, and the short fiction collections What You Make It and More Tomorrow and Other Stories; the latter penned The Straw Men, The Lonely Dead (aka The Upright Man), and the recent Blood of Angels. He is a five-time winner of the British Fantasy Award and a three-time World Fantasy Award nominee. Smith has also worked extensively as a screenwriter, writing feature scripts for clients in LA and London. He is currently working as producer and script editor on a movie adaptation of one of his stories, cowriting a television series pilot, and starting a new novel.

  “‘The Compound’ is actually quite different to anything else I’ve ever written,” said Smith, “a speculative kind-of-SF story of a type I’ve never attempted before or since. I wrote it because a series of images and atmospheres came into my head at the same time—and insisted they were relevant to each other. It turned out that they were, albeit in a strange way.”

  Michael Marshall Smith lives in North London, England. Find out more about Smith at his Web site: www.michaelmarshallsmith.com.

  Daniel sat on his small chair by the bed and watched his mother sleeping. Enough light filtered through the drawn curtains for him to see the rise and fall of her chest beneath the bedclothes, and he counted the breaths as they came and went. As long as he could count the breaths she was still alive, and as long as they came, he would count them. He wished his mother had someone else to help her, someone who wasn’t seven years old. But she hadn’t, and so he had to do the best he could.

  He looked at the glass on the bedside table and saw there was enough water there still. If she wanted more he could get some from the kitchen next door, but it was all right for now.

  For now he would just sit, and count.

  “The cold is within you,” Dark thought, irritably. “You are not within the cold.” He was trying to convince himself that it wasn’t the snow around him which was making him feel numb, or the fact that it was twenty degrees below, or even that he just wasn’t dressed for this kind of crap. It wasn’t working. The cold was both within and without him, and getting colder. If he didn’t get warm soon, he was going to die.