Will there be any end to this? How bad will things have to get?
SEVENTEEN
Jeza decided it was time to return to the location where the Mourning Wasp had been discovered. Though she had taken small samples to assess its potential, she alone could not have conducted the complex experiments to take it back to the factory.
She brought Coren and Diggsy with her this time, and they helped her with their sophisticated equipment. The boys cursed the rain that lashed against their faces on the journey there, and cursed the ascent on their skittish horses. But, eventually, in the sanctuary of the cave, they saw what Jeza had found and were astounded – as she had been herself.
As she stared at the remnants of the original Mourning Wasp once again she realized that the find managed to fulfil that need in her life, the thirst for knowledge.
It seemed to fill the void of answers in her own existence.
Like some of the others at the factory, Jeza had grown up without knowing her parents. She told herself she didn’t care about this. She had been lucky, though, and had somehow managed to scrape a decent existence alongside cultists, who had taught her to read, had instilled in her a sense of curiosity.
Jeza felt a strange kinship with these forgotten creatures of the past; and she was determined not to be forgotten. So she wanted to make her mark.
And she would do that through palaeomancy.
Coren laughed a little, pushed a few strands of black hair from his eyes. He walked around, folding his arms around his stocky midriff. ‘I’ll give you this. It’s the best find you’ve made.’
She examined his comments for any traces of sarcasm and then beamed with pride and said, ‘Thanks!’
They unpacked their relics and set to work. They built a frame over the pit using small silver rods, so that after an hour it seemed as if a metallic spider had been at work on some alarmingly brutal web. Once this was in place, she began to attach the necessary wires to a thaumaturge unit, which in reality was no more than a two-feet-square box, but she struggled to lift its weight on her own. Finally, she attached a large glass vial to collect what she liked to tell others was the distilled essence of Time. What was collected was essential to the re-creation phase back in the factory.
They switched on the equipment. Light shot along the wires and the silver metal mesh began to glow purple, illuminating their faces. They stared down on the work in progress. The exoskeleton on the Mourning Wasp began to stutter in and out of existence, then, soon after that, so did the skull.
After the better part of an hour, what remained was a translucent set of remains. This was the bit where she felt guilty, that these beautiful almost-fossilized remains would never be the same again. In the right light, it would seem as if a ghost lay there on the floor. She checked the vial and it had indeed filled up with a murky-looking fluid. She unscrewed it carefully, sealed it, and placed it in a bag – for the next few hours, it wouldn’t leave her side.
After the operation the three of them crouched down by the side of the Mourning Wasp. It now lay there both in and out of existence, half of it removed, half of it to remain there indefinitely.
‘We’re done,’ Diggsy sighed, placing his arm casually around Jeza’s waist.
‘Finally,’ Coren muttered, ‘we can head back to civilization.’
‘I like it out here,’ Jeza replied. ‘It gives you space to think.’
‘Think about what? There’s nothing to think about out here. There’s nothing but rain and rocks. No wonder this poor thing decided to end its days. If it lived in the city, at least there’d be something to think about.’
‘Well, there’s not a huge amount left in Villiren these days either.’
‘True, I’ll give you that,’ Coren said.
‘Anyway, let’s head home,’ Jeza said, ‘I want to get started on bringing him back.’ She gestured to the inconsistent form of the Mourning Wasp.
*
Later that night, back at Factory 54, phase two began. With the rest of the young group gathered around excitedly, Jeza and Diggsy reconstructed the metallic web around their large marble workbench, while Coren complained that his legs ached and sat glumly in the kitchen area watching them. Still, she liked that it was her and Diggsy doing this; it was something else for them to bond over, something else to share.
For the better part of an hour they arranged the rods and this time she had to make sure that they were all tilted according to the correct angles. More than once she had to consult her books, because she was always forgetting an equation here and there.
Pilli had lit a few coloured lanterns nearby, lighting the room with a warm glow. Jeza could smell food being cooked as she walked around making minute adjustments. There were sudden shouts and weapons clashing outside and for a moment they thought the war had restarted, though Gorri ran back in saying it was just a few of the gangs engaged in a turf fight.
‘Great,’ Jeza muttered. ‘I guess soon even we’ll have to start paying protection money.’
‘Nah,’ Diggsy replied. ‘I’ve heard they’re too busy trying to build up numbers from the war. It’ll be a while yet.’
She turned back to her work, inserted the vial containing the essence of the Mourning Wasp and watched it drain into the rods. Then, she stood back as they began to glow.
Slowly but surely, as she expected, a form started to materialize before them on the workbench. It stuttered into existence, and then became cohesive.
Once the rods were removed, everyone in the group – even Coren, whose legs were mysteriously no longer aching – shuffled across to see the results.
It was the Mourning Wasp, and it maintained the same slightly curled pose that it had in the cave.
‘It’s strange,’ Jeza said. ‘The skull seems to have arrived complete, yet the rest of the body is still translucent.’
‘Your bit of kit always worked better on bone. It was designed by cultists interested in the necromancy of humans and rumels, don’t forget.’
‘Yeah, I guess so. Dammit, this is going to mean another failure.’
‘Don’t be so harsh on yourself,’ Diggsy said. His startling eyes disarmed her anger. ‘It’s too early yet. Besides, we could think of something.’
‘How? We need a complete body – a full exoskeleton – if we’re to do anything with this.’
Little Gorri pushed in to get a closer look. The kid needed to visit the barber, since his red hair almost covered his eyes. ‘I know I spend most of my time with designs and stuff, but you could always use the Okun parts, eh?’
Jeza looked at Diggsy, and then at Coren, who made a face that said it was worth a go.
*
Jeza puzzled over the theory for a day or two. She lay on her bed, surrounded by fossils perched haphazardly upon shelves, which she’d hoarded in her childhood. She held one in her hands, a small spiralled shell now blended with rock, mystified as to its purpose in life. She examined her notebooks on shared characteristics of fauna, to see if there were any patterns that might be of use. She looked at massive charts, complex family trees spread about on vellum across the walls, which only she could really fathom – though much of that was down to her dire handwriting. She had spent much of her life wondering where certain creatures came from, but the Mourning Wasp was all the more difficult to assess given the fact that cultists had a penchant for tinkering with the fabric of life.
Diggsy entered the room only at night, and the two of them lay alongside each other in a passionless state. She still churned through speculative theories in her mind, all the time wondering what might happen.
If she could somehow ensure the Mourning Wasp’s form was stable, by using something from the Okun material – and even its biological matter – then the creature would surely be able to survive. Then they could easily reproduce it.
When she was certain Diggsy was asleep, she leaned over to retrieve the small box containing Lim’s notebooks. For a long time she was scared of opening them, scared of what
she might feel, but as soon as she looked across his theories and formulae she put aside whatever emotions she had felt – still felt – for him and got lost in the magic of his silence.
EIGHTEEN
The new criers of Villiren began their work early.
Like an invasion force, several of them penetrated the streets of Saltwater, Althing, Scarhouse, Deeping, the Ancient Quarter, what was left of Port Nostalgia and throughout dribs and drabs of the Wastelands, wherever there might be people who would listen.
In a bright-red doublet, black breeches and black tricorne hat, which Brynd had commissioned for their newly formed role as official information distributors, they marched forth bringing news. While last night those who were interested in the wider world had gathered to see the Night Guard’s return, there were still tens of thousands of people who had not turned up, who were either too busy or uninterested in things beyond their streets. Brynd left the Citadel, to follow the criers’ progress and gauge public reaction from the corner of road junctions. At the back of his mind, he wondered if he’d witness the Empress gorging herself on some poor unsuspecting soul . . .
It was a chilly, sharp morning, and a sea mist had drifted onshore, leaving its ghostly impression upon the streets. The criers’ voices seemed to come from nowhere and gained greater significance in these conditions. They rang their bells, and issued forth the news that Brynd had scripted for them.
Villjamur had been destroyed. Tens of thousands of people had fled. The Imperial forces came to their rescue and were victorious. There was a roll call of some of the few senior military names who died. There was a reiteration of the victory, that the enemy had not just been defeated but comprehensively beaten. The first message was simple and repeated itself from street to street, verbatim. People seemed to acknowledge the words and perhaps mutter a comment or two to someone nearby, but otherwise citizens seemed utterly uninterested or unimpressed.
Good, Brynd thought, they don’t feel threatened or concerned. It’s business as usual for them.
A little later on in the morning came the second wave of messages: the man who called himself Emperor is dead. All Imperial powers have henceforth transferred to Villiren. The Jamur lineage is to be reinstated. Military law continues from the aftermath of the siege.
Then the third and final message of the day: good news. We have powerful new allies to the south of the city. They supported us in the war. They bring prosperity to our lands. Our friends will help us keep the vicious enemies, who have destroyed Villjamur, at bay. Only with our new friends can we succeed. Together we will create a new, wealthy, safer world for our children. It is important we welcome them. The Empress extends her hand of friendship.
It occurred to Brynd how people barely reacted to Rika’s name, and he hoped – when the time was right – she could continue making public appearances. He felt it was important for people to buy into a stable leader.
He walked down one of the main thoroughfares to Scarhouse, and into an iren, as this last piece of news was absorbed into the city. Traders looked up, customers paused in their browsing. A weird silence fell here.
Together, prosperity, important, welcome, safer, wealthy, all words that Brynd had agonized over. Their tone was right, he felt, and it should plant a positive seed in people’s minds. He could never predict just how people would react. People could not care about the most important matters, issues that directly affected their lives, and yet something exceptionally mundane could spark riots. The criers might not be enough, however. It occurred to him that, yet again, he would also need to get the Jorsalir Church on board, much as he loathed to do so. Their help had been crucial in mustering volunteers for the war effort; their help would also be a necessary evil in getting the message across that a transition to a new culture would be harmonious. How helpful would they be in the face of new cultures coming to these islands?
Brynd made a safe assumption that there would be plenty of trouble to come. What would be the consequences of integrating their two worlds? Humans and rumels did, generally, get along – though that took centuries to happen. Perhaps they should settle on different islands altogether, and build separate communities, in peace.
Nothing like this had ever been attempted, and his inexperience was showing. The only thing that was right in both his head and heart was for there to be acceptance of each other’s culture.
And that required sound propaganda.
*
Whilst continuing with his morning patrols, and keen to see some of the city after his brief mission on Jokull, Brynd decided to pay a visit to the youths at the factory. He wanted to give them the good news regarding the success of their armour in battle, to tell them he would be ordering plenty more, and to see what else they could do.
The fog began to clear, and he could see the streets around the factory were quiet as always. Few people seemed to want to travel here, and why would they? There were few irens, few stores, few taverns. The place needed renovation; the streets should be thronging with activity. What happened to these factories and why had they mostly stopped working?
Since he had helped to organize a successful defence of the city, Brynd wanted to improve Villiren vastly. He could see so much untapped potential in the city. Here was an area that needed injecting with money to get production going again, to get people moving in and spending money and creating jobs. So much could be done – there was no reason this area couldn’t become an engine room of the future city, a trade hub.
*
He eventually reached the factory where the youths were. There, he banged on the door loudly and waited. Very distantly he thought he could hear something inside, like a grumbling.
Or a droning noise. Or was that growling?
Then there were loud footsteps running over a metal frame, and someone calling from one corner of the warehouse to another, before silence fell. Then, nothing.
He thumped on the door again, then regarded the street as a few flakes of snow fell to the ground before melting away. He waited a little longer.
Eventually someone came to let him in and the bolts slid free.
‘Commander!’ Jeza stood in the doorway, covered in muck and looking totally flustered. Her red hair was tied back, and strands of it flitted across her face in the morning breeze. ‘Oh, we weren’t expecting you back just yet.’
‘Have I come at a bad time?’ Brynd asked, curious as to what was going on.
‘No, no, it’s that, I . . . Look, you’d better come in.’ Jeza skipped aside from him to enter. He plunged into the semi-darkness behind her and waited for her to lead the way again.
‘How was your business out of town?’ she asked. ‘Did you get everything sorted?’
‘It was a battle.’
‘Literally or figuratively?’
‘Literally.’
‘Oh my,’ she replied. ‘You should have said.’
‘I didn’t want anyone to know at the time,’ Brynd replied. ‘Though you could have guessed with my recent orders. So has the team been keeping well?’
‘We’ve certainly been a bit busy,’ she said, leading him through the dreary corridors. ‘You said you were in battle then – so, does that mean you were testing the armour?’
‘That’s correct, yes.’
‘And . . .’
Brynd laughed. ‘It stood up exceptionally well, Jeza. None of us who were wearing it bore any injuries where we were protected by it. What’s more everyone reported back on the weight and mobility improvements. We’re going to want a lot more of it – as much as you can manufacture.’
‘Oh that’s great!’ she replied. ‘I’ll show you how we’ve improved our production methods.’
‘Very efficient of you,’ Brynd said.
Jeza directed him towards their seating area, but before she did she paused and her expression changed to one of concern. ‘Now, I know I said you didn’t come at a bad time, but just to warn you, things are . . . OK, I’ll not shit you – they’re a little b
it lively in there at the moment. Things have gone wrong.’
‘Should I be worried?’
A sudden clamour erupted the other side of the door, and it sounded as if quite a few things had been knocked over with an enormous clatter. Jeza cringed. ‘No, no,’ she said, and shook her head vigorously. ‘Not at all. It’s just that . . . an experiment or two is underway, and I think maybe it’s getting a little out of hand . . .’
‘I understand,’ Brynd said. ‘Do you want me to stand to one side until you sort it out?’
‘That . . . yeah, that might work. OK, you ready?’
He nodded and she opened the door.
Brynd stepped in behind her and immediately looked upwards. Though he couldn’t quite fathom its precise shape, something enormous, and with many legs, was drifting across the ceiling. It was covered in a slimy skin and making an unnatural, guttural noise without really opening its maw. Its head was lolling from side to side and it lumbered its way awkwardly across to a platform on one side, where it then cowered in a corner.
‘What on earth is that?’ Brynd enquired.
‘Experiment number eighty-something . . . Eighty-three I think.’
‘Could you expand on this, just for a curious soldier?’
‘You know, we’re in the business of creating all sorts here, and this is a bit of prep work to see if the regenerative technology will work on something else, which I think it might. We’re in the trade of horrors and grotesques – which is precisely what this is. We make monsters.’
‘It doesn’t look especially horrific,’ Brynd observed. ‘The thing looks more frightened of you.’
‘Stupid beast.’ One of the other lads entered the room, the laid-back handsome blond, who placed his arm casually behind Jeza’s back. ‘Yeah, we’re not great at refining their moods just yet.’
The Broken Isles (Legends of the Red Sun 4) Page 21
