The thing collapsed into a flash of orange sparks and Origon hastily snatched his notes back, panting. “May the ancestor’s beards fall out,” he cursed, then glared at the surprised looking Pixie wheeling a cart loaded with shipping crates. She looked back to her work and attempted to push the cart faster.
Origon walked on. Hand Dancer had made the web of connections look easy. Ever since the space shuttle, his song was too frail, his notes too thin. He listened, trying to thread the various songs together again.
A tap on his shoulder broke his concentration, and he looked up quickly, trying to gauge his surroundings. He was in a particularly dingy alley, dwellings made of cargo pallets leaning together over his head. Hanging lanterns gave weak light, as the walls did not illuminate here. He wrinkled his nose as a breeze assailed him, driving a decomposing stench off the shallow lake against which the Imperium nestled.
“I said, got a coin handy, sir?” a voice said to his left. A rather ugly Methiemum in a wrap that might have once been blue held out a hand. There was nothing visibly wrong with him, aside from his smell. Origon listened to chords of meaning in the Symphony of Communication, between this man and several others behind him. He didn’t turn.
Finally.
“I do not,” Origon told him sternly, refusing to acknowledge the pouch hanging at his side. “I am not appreciating being disturbed. Did you know I am a majus?”
“We do, that,” the man replied, with a haze of halitosis. “Me and me friends were thinkin’ what with all the trouble you maji are diggin’ up with the Aridori, you could spare some coin for the lesser privileged.”
Origon pretended surprise, his crest spiking up. He turned, taking the chance to swing his robe out of the way, and took in the three others he had heard in the Symphony. There was another scraggly Methiemum woman, a stocky Lobath, hir head-tentacles an unhealthy gray, and an Etanela barely taller than him. She must have been severely malnourished growing up. Only four? How disappointing.
“The maji have not caused any recent problems.” Origon feigned haughtiness. “You should not be believing such stories about the Aridori. Likely they are lies. The maji help with large matters, not handouts.” A few days ago, he had believed the Aridori were rumors. Now, he was reserving judgment until he saw the one Feldo captured.
“We’re happy to earn our wages from you,” the Lobath said, and something shiny in hir hand caught the light from the lanterns strung above.
Origon tried to disrupt the jigs and dances of power between this gang, but it was too similar to what he had done before and the Symphony resisted. Stupid of him. He waved away the tingling, taking his notes back.
“He’s doing magic,” the woman said. “Stop him!” The Lobath thrust the knife toward Origon’s shoulder.
He smiled, showing pointy teeth. This, he knew. A few notes added to the Symphony of Communication created a blast of air to push the thin knife off course. He recaptured the notes and the wind died.
He closed the distance and stuck a fist into the Lobath’s stomach—a short punch to the ribs, the thumping beat of the strike amplified in power by his song. The Lobath turned even grayer and buckled, gasping for breath. Origon scarcely stopped his own gasp. This should be a simple matter, but each breath felt labored.
He sucked in breath, and spun to the Etanela and Methiemum woman, who were both circling in. He brought measures closer together, arpeggio, in the melody of the air. At the same time, more of his notes went to the long, smooth tones defining temperature. With the House of Power, he shortened them, making them faster, creating heat.
He pushed one hand toward the woman, the other toward the short Etanela. Spirals of yellow and orange spun toward them, a sudden change in air pressure and temperature. There were two short thuds and both fell, clutching at bleeding noses and ears.
The man barreled into him. Origon hit the flimsy alley wall with a grunt, the breath driven from him. Something cracked as the man punched him in the stomach. It was the thin boards of the wall, not his ribs, thankfully. Origon shoved the man back, tying the music of power and communication into one measure, endlessly repeating.
“Stop.”
The man swayed, then stood, blinking at Origon. It was a trick he picked up many cycles ago, rarely used, and only by a majus who could hear both the Symphonies of Power and Communication. If the Council knew about it, they would have forbidden its use. The endlessly repeating measure short circuited the man’s connection to his body. He would break through it eventually, but not before Origon had answers.
“Tell me who sent you.” Origon put out a hand to prop himself up against the alley wall, slumping. The changes had taken more out of him than they should.
Instead, the man gathered air to yell, and Origon immediately tapped into the Symphony of Communication. He used more of his notes, muting the noise until it was a squeak. A sharp pain ran through his head and he fell against the brittle wall.
That had been a permanent change. He was using too many notes. He glanced at the other three long enough to tell they wouldn’t be getting up for a little while.
“No help will come. You are at my mercy. Tell me who sent you.” The threat was laughable, as Origon fought to stand upright. Veins stood out in the man’s neck as he struggled to make his body obey. Hopefully the command would not wear away too much before he could reverse it. Every bit the man struggled would lose Origon more notes.
“I will free you if you tell me,” he bargained.
The man still didn’t answer, but he watched Origon warily.
“Did someone pay you?”
After a long moment, the man answered him. “Yes.”
Origon smiled in response. “See, that was not hard. Has this same person paid other groups in the Nether?”
There was a shorter pause this time. “Yes.”
“How much did they pay you?”
“A large triangle,” the man answered immediately. He was probably lying—that was a cycle’s wages for a menial worker, and Origon doubted this man had a steady income. Still, he needed information. He fished in his coin purse. Luckily he had a triangle on him. He found that and five small circles of the denomination below. It was most of his stipend as a majus for the last month, but he could get more. This was in the service of the Council, after all, if not official. He showed the translucent coins to the man.
“One and a half times your payment. Yours if you tell me the truth. I will know if you lie.” Though it was possible with the House of Communication, Origon had no energy to spare.
The man’s eyes—the only part of him that could move—followed the coins greedily. His mouth trembled.
“Nakan,” he finally spat, then the words tumbled out. “One of the Sathssn. He were another majus, like you. He’s been funding all the groups in Mid and High Imperium. We tell him what we see about you maji.” He panted, as if the words had tired him physically.
“He gave you his name?” Nakan was a Sathssn name, but probably assumed.
“Some other snakey with him used it once. When he saw we heard, said he was not going to sneak about like you ‘Nether maji’.”
Origon gave him another toothy smile—the man’s eyes grew large—and then pressed the coins into one of his limp hands. Let the four of them scrabble over how to divide it.
“You have been most helpful. I trust you will not be attacking any more maji in the future?”
Origon held the man’s eyes. He still couldn’t shake his head, though he trembled with effort, and finally said, “No, we won’t,” with obvious sullen resentment.
“Make sure to be passing that recommendation to the other groups.” Origon kept his steps slow, as he strolled past the man and the fallen, still gasping Lobath. The woman and short Etanela were unconscious from his attack, the trickles of blood from their noses and ears slowing.
“Go help your comrades,” he said over his shoulder, and snapped his fingers, releasing the command and
reabsorbing his notes. He didn’t need to snap, but seeing the look on the man’s face as he slumped was worth the dramatics.
Origon strolled away, whistling tunelessly through his teeth. He had a name and information. This walk had been most informative.
* * *
“Nakan,” Ori said as he walked through the door to Rilan’s apartment and around a stack of crates. The large set of rooms near the entrance to the House of Healing was inhabited by the councilor and house head, but she was neither, now. Usually the process was controlled—councilors were very rarely removed from the Council—but Vethis had been by twice to gloat and hurry her along. She hadn’t hit him. Yet.
“What’s a Nakan?” Rilan said, looking up from the box she was filling with Council documents. They were her private notes, and Vethis wouldn’t be getting his hands on them. The whole Sureriaj-Methiemum poison incident was recorded in these papers, though no one else had ever seen them.
“The name of the majus who has been riling up the street gangs,” Ori told her. Rilan stopped packing. “He is also not wanting to associate with the ‘Nether maji’.”
“A rogue majus?” Some maji grew tired of being ruled over by the Council. There were no hard rules to stop them, though the Council also controlled their stipend, and to an extent how easy it was to find work. Some still took that option. “How did you find out?”
“The direct method. By being attacked.”
Rilan raised her eyebrows. “On purpose?” She saw Ori frown, then smooth the expression away hastily, innocent. His crest looked like a feather duster, however.
Rilan dropped the stack of papers in the box and crossed the room to him, smoothing out the wrinkles near his eyes with one hand. “You’re pale. Sit down. How much of your song did you use?”
“These groups are not only attacking councilors, but tracking any maji they see,” Ori told her, ignoring the question, but sitting in a chair with a small sigh.
“Then we have to warn Caroom and Hand Dancer,” she said.
“I sent a message to them before I was coming here. They will soon arrive.”
Rilan frowned. “I’m packing, Ori. I’m no longer head of the House of Healing, if you didn’t catch that part. If I don’t move out soon, Vethis will come sit on my doorstep, and that will not end well.”
“Then we will be helping you while discussing what happens next,” Ori said.
Considering how Ori looked now, she didn’t want him fainting if he did pick up a crate, so when the others arrived, Rilan set them to work before Ori could capture their attention.
“Pack while you talk, or talk later,” she said, directing Inas to a stack of small boxes.
“Third floor, room eight,” she told him. “It was the closest to the ground floor I could get at short notice, and only by pulling some strings. Caren E’Bon is having her second child, and has to move her family out. They’re going to a separate apartment in High Imperium.”
She kept them moving for the next few darkenings until true evening, prodding even Ori to help when she didn’t think he would fall over. It was time for her to become invisible. Her new status and the disgrace that followed it would help. Her list of friends had dried up significantly in the past three days.
“Nakan. That is a, hmm, Sathssn name, is it not?” Caroom asked that night, when they were resting in Rilan’s new, smaller, apartment. The furniture was cramped, but she wasn’t going to move it again today. Between the return from Dalhni, the few of hours sleep, and the morning meeting with Hand Dancer, it had been one of the longest days in her memory. She’d find the best place for each piece over time.
“It is,” Ori confirmed. “This Sathssn is seeming to be behind many of the recent attacks, and is spying on the movements of the maji society.”
“What of the attack on Councilor Feldo, by a, hmm, confirmed Aridori?” Caroom raised one massive burnished hand. “Is this Nakan connected with them as well?”
Rilan eyed Inas’ wince. He and his sister flinched at any mention of the Aridori. What had their parents taught them? “If they are connected, then this is an even larger piece of puzzle.”
Hand Dancer signed. The Lobhl had informed them zie was a third gender this evening.
“Possible,” Rilan said. There was still something they were missing. She could feel it. “Shiv’s tongue and teeth, why would a majus prey on his own? Anyone know of this Nakan?”
“This one has not heard of that one,” Caroom rumbled. Their flickering eyes passed over Rilan from their perch against a wall.
Rilan tucked a few errant strands into her braid, loosened during the move. “So he is rogue, or keeps to himself. We don’t even know which house he belongs to. If he isn’t rogue, he must have a very weak song for none of us to have heard of him.”
Ori shook his head, crest rippling in thought. “How is this to be affecting the web of power?” he asked Hand Dancer. An orange and gray glow surrounded the Lobhl’s hands, strings coming into existence. Ori watched the color intently, listening, and Rilan hid a smile. Sometimes he was as petty as a child.
“The attacks on the maji, hmm, obviously,” Caroom said. Hand Dancer nodded and plucked a string. One side of the shape began to look more solid.
“Potentially the rising rumors of the Aridori,” Ori mused.
The structure changed again as Hand Dancer’s large and tattooed hands touched more strings, compressing. Suddenly, another strand popped into being and zie made a surprised gesture.
“What happened?” Inas asked.
Hand Dancer took a long moment before answering, carefully looking over the glowing structure hanging in the air in front of hir. Zie looked to Ori, and their eyes met. Ori gave a slow nod.
“It does? What about it? Can we find them?” Inas’ voice rose with each word. Rilan raised a hand to quiet him, but Hand Dancer was already answering.
The Lobhl’s fingers twiddled in concentration as zie peered from all sides.
Ori looked at the web before also shaking his head. “We know they are connected, but I am not certain—” He rose to stare at the representation of glowing strings from another angle, running clawed fingers down his moustache. He closed his eyes for a moment, surely listening to the music.
“We must find my sister and Sam,” Inas said, half out of his seat.
“Shush, boy,” Rilan said sharply. She glanced to Caroom afterward, realizing she had corrected another’s apprentice, but they nodded slightly and closed their eyes in acceptance. “We will find Enos and Sam. One is my responsibility and I’ve already lost a Council position over it. They are part of our group. Do you not think I want to find them?”
Inas looked embarrassed at that, and fell silent.
Ori stared at the construct, his head tilted, crest expanding and contracting. He reached out one finger. “May I?”
Hand Dancer gestured acceptance. Ori gently hooked one claw around a string, tugging. Both he and Hand Dancer winced at the same time and the string fizzed with a silent chord.
“Excuse me. Wrong note.”
Rilan was glad she couldn’t hear the Symphony of Power.
Ori tried again, repositioning the string. His face was strained, Hand Dancer’s fingers crooking, as if they listened to a sustained dissonance. He let go, leaving the construct in a slightly different shape, but the connections at the center were closer together.
“What is?” Rilan asked, and Ori started. Hand Dancer’s fingers spread wide for a moment.
“The Aridori prisoner,” Caroom said. Inas jerked. Everyone looked at Caroom and the Benish spread their hands, eyes bright. “There are other ways to logically deduce than, hmm, this.” They pointed a thick finger at the construct and Ori frowned at them.
“I sent a communication to Feldo yesterday,” Rilan said. “I haven’t heard anything back, and there’s been no announcement.” It was a safe bet the Council wouldn’t let them talk to the only representative of a species thought extinct.
“As Caroom says, there are other ways.” Ori looked innocent.
“Sneak in to see the Aridori?” Rilan hesitated. She would be going against the Council, and the Effature. Inas was sitting bolt upright, nearly vibrating. His eyes were wide. Whatever he had been told about the old monsters must have scared him silly.
“Think of it as a way to be undermining Vethis,” Ori said.
Rilan threw a black look at him. “Don’t assume that will assuage my moral sense.”
“Hmmmmm,” Caroom hummed, the emanation from deep within their chest. “The Council is not aware of the connections these ones are.” They gestured toward Hand Dancer. “If that group was, surely those would jump to the same conclusions. So should this group assume this act is in the interests of the Council, even if these ones do not inform them?”
Rilan threw back her head and laughed. It was the first time in…gods, how long? “Caroom, I didn’t think you had such subversiveness in you.”
“Maybe Caroom would be interested in traveling together for a while,” Ori mused. “They remind me of someone else, many cycles ago.”
Rilan punched him in the arm—not too lightly—and he tried to hide a smile, but his crest gave him away.
The Seeds of Dissolution Page 30
