Winterstrike

by Liz Williams

  Then the years went by and Leretui grew up and the Voice went away. But then, one day, it returned. It sounded different and even stranger. The alien remoteness had gone from it: it was a Martian voice, it said, but it did not sound like any voice that Leretui had ever heard before. It told her to do something quite different from the study of an atlas. It told her to go to the bridge on the Curve at Ombre and there she would meet someone, the kind of person she had always wanted to meet, and her vague, odd longings would be satisfied at last.

  It did not occur to Leretui to question the Voice, or to consider that it might be leading her into a situation from which there would be no return. Trustingly, she did exactly what it told her to do and when the vulpen skated out from beneath the shelter of the bridge and held out its unnatural hand she experienced a moment of cold and awful shock, and then complied.

  If they had not been discovered, what would have happened? Leretui did not know. There were rumours about men-remnants, of course, and their perverted practices: the idea of penetration, which to Leretui seemed to embody violence and which was immediately abhorrent, and yet attractive at some deep level all the same. It was by these thoughts that she knew herself to be lost and this was why she had permitted her incarceration: to give herself time to consider how best to kill herself, because she could not be allowed to live, not after this.

  There in the locked chamber, on the night of Ombre, she thought she’d succeeded, for the Voice had come back – the second one, not the sibilant, whispering original of her childhood.

  I want to die, she told the Voice and the Voice had replied, Why, so you shall.

  They punished me, Leretui said, still a bewildered child at the root of it all.

  Of course they did. You’re different. Better, stronger. You make them afraid.

  The Voice had spoken with great assurance, so much so that Leretui was unable to disagree with it even though she did not feel it to be true: why would anyone fear her, ineffectual as she was?

  The Voice told her that death would be easy. All she had to do was to sit very still, and will her breathing to stop, and then to wait. Shorn, grateful, had done exactly as it instructed her, masked behind the costume of Ombre and therefore hidden a little even from herself. As her breathing slowed, the blackness behind the mask had fallen in upon her, pounding inside her head and bringing a sunburst of golden stars as she felt herself falling with it.

  She hadn’t died, though. She had a confused impression of movement, someone taking her by the hand with thin, strong fingers and leading her down a flight of stairs.

  ‘Come along, Leretui,’ the Voice said, coaxing. ‘Come along.’

  Then the cold, sudden outside, and snow crunching underneath her feet, the air freezing the spit in her mouth, and darkness and speed. Then, nothing. She’d woken up – not in the locked room, but here, in the high tower overlooking range upon range of mountains, a captive princess. The room was round and in it was a bed, and a table, and a jug set upon it. The jug was filled with water and there were strange white flowers floating in it, filling the room with a wild perfume, not altogether sweet. A narrow window looked outward and all of this, to Shorn, was a luxury after the year in dim captivity. No one to berate her, no one to come and tell her how badly she had let them down, how shamefully she had behaved.

  During her earlier years, Shorn had told no one about the Voice: let them think her bad, if they must, but not madness and the blacklight correction that would follow – she’d brushed close enough against that in any case, and it was only that Alleghetta didn’t want further scandal that had held her mothers back from full psychiatric correction. Here, there was only the bare room and its ancient carvings, faces from the Age of Children, an old tower abandoned long ago, and the view and the cold air that breathed through the window when she opened it. When she looked up she saw empty sky: nothing flew over this land and Shorn rejoiced in its remoteness. The window looked out onto a glacial wall and the high peaks beyond, which caught the sun in the evening and changed to a deep, translucent scarlet.

  For three days she was alone. Food appeared on the table – basic stews of bread and grain, with an alcoholic aftertaste. Shorn didn’t mind basic, after Calmaretto’s over-elaborate meals, and there was plenty of water.

  On the third day, the woman came. Shorn had spent a lot of time sleeping, and she was lying on the bed when the woman came through the door, with the wind whistling and calling through the window, singing into Shorn’s dreams with its own clear voice.

  ‘Wake up, Shorn,’ the woman said. Shorn started up. She saw a tall person, perhaps in her twenties, with a narrow, pointed face, her hair concealed by a veil. Thin brows arched upwards and the skin around the woman’s liquid black eyes looked bruised. She wore armour and a long coat over it, in the manner of the north, but it did not look quite like northern clothing, all the same. Shorn tried not to stare.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

  ‘My name is Mantis.’ A deep voice, which tugged at Shorn’s memory. The name meant nothing to her.

  ‘How did I get here? I mean, thank you. I’m grateful . . .’ Her voice trailed away.

  ‘You should never have been locked up in the first place.’ Mantis came to sit on the bed beside her, a little too close for someone of uncertain status. Shorn forced herself not to move away. Mantis reached out and drew a finger down Shorn’s cheek. Mantis’s flesh was icy and this time Shorn did flinch. There was an extra joint on each of the woman’s fingers. Beneath the veil, Leretui glimpsed her hair, intricately arranged into small whorls.

  ‘You’re one of the Changed,’ Leretui whispered.

  Mantis smiled. ‘It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you.’ There was almost a hint of mockery. Something silvery moved in her eyes and Shorn thought of blacklight and promises. ‘You’re rather beautiful, aren’t you? I’ve seen ideograms of the ladies of Calmaretto, from ages back. All the same – they must have standardized the birthing chambers at some point. White skin, black hair, grey eyes. Your sister’s the same, isn’t she? Like princesses from a fairy story.’

  ‘What do you want?’ Shorn whispered.

  ‘Oh, this and that. You’ll find out. In the meantime, enjoy yourself. I imagine you’ll welcome some peace and quiet after all the stress and excitement.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Shorn said, and to her own ears her voice sounded very small. Mantis patted her hand with cold fingers.

  ‘Good girl. We’ll look after you. I’ll be back in a while.’

  She rose and went out through the door. Immediately, the psychic pressure lifted, but Shorn was left with one overriding thought.

  That was my Voice.

  ELEVEN

  Hestia — Crater Plain

  ‘Be quiet,’ a voice hissed in my ear, ‘or I’ll cut your throat to match your mouth.’

  I had no intention of speaking. The arm that had clasped me around the chest was like an iron band, and when I squinted down I saw that it was clad in black haunt-enhanced armour. Redness flickered in its shiny depths.

  ‘Now,’ the voice said, very low and chilly, ‘answer me precisely, in single words. Do not cry out. Remember what I told you.’

  I gestured assent past the constriction of the arm.

  ‘Where is this vessel going?’

  ‘Small Sea.’

  ‘Ah. Good. Are you going there directly, or will you be taking the cut-off?’

  ‘The cut. Through the Noumenon.’ If I’d hoped to put her off, it was unsuccessful.

  ‘Even better! Are you the pilot of this vessel?’

  ‘No.’

  Then what?’

  ‘Refugee.’

  There was a laugh. ‘How unfortunate it must be, to have a home. Whereas if you were a traveller, like me, this would be no

  Crater Plain more than an inconvenience. But you don’t sound as though you’re from Caud.’

  ‘Small Sea.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ said the voice. ‘That’s not a
Shores accent, though it’s a passable imitation. Where are you really from?’

  She was good enough that I thought it inadvisable to lie any further. ‘Winterstrike.’

  ‘That’s better. And of a Matriarchy clan, from your tone. That’s not the voice of a peasant. How interesting! So what are you doing all the way out here? Keep it simple. And don’t lie. I’ll know.’ Across my chest, the armour flickered. ‘I see you’ve been tortured recently.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They thought I was a spy.’

  Are you?’

  Good enough, but not that good? We’d soon find out. ‘An industrial spy,’ I said.

  ‘Ah, but industrial spies in times of war are spies in the truest sense, aren’t they? You needn’t worry. I’ve no loyalty to those strictists in Caud. I don’t like dour fanatics. Or flouncing aristocrats, in case you’re wondering.’

  ‘Then who are you?’ I risked.

  ‘Me? Why, I’m just a simple marauder.’

  That didn’t exactly surprise me. ‘We have nothing here for you,’ I said. ‘The pilot dropped cargo off in Caud – these are just containers.’

  Another laugh. ‘I’m not interested in cargo. I’m interested in passage.’

  ‘Let me go,’ I said, ‘and we’ll talk about it.’

  Rather to my surprise, she did. I backed away against the wall and turned to see a woman in stark contrasts of red and black. Her skin was like jet, shining as if oiled, but her hair was a dark, unnatural crimson, bound tightly at the back of her head. Her eyes, too, were dark red and the flicker of haunt-tech occasionally passed across her skin, moving from her armour to her flesh.

  ‘My name is Rubirosa.’

  ‘Should I have heard of you?’

  ‘For your sake, I hope not. And yours?’

  ‘Shenday Marlis Shenday.’

  The red eyes narrowed. ‘Is that the name you were given at your naming ceremony? Or one adopted for your trip to Caud?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  She grinned, displaying sharpened teeth. ‘Maybe, maybe not.’

  ‘Look,’ I said. ‘We could take you with us. Assuming you’re not wanted by a pack of excissieres.’

  ‘Ah. Yes. Well.’

  ‘I can’t speak for the pilot, but I can say with some certainty that neither of us wants trouble. That dreadnought that came down earlier – I saw fighting on the deck. Would that be anything to do with you?’

  Rubirosa looked shifty. ‘There was a small local disagreement.’

  ‘And you want to rejoin your – companions?’

  ‘Eventually.’

  Again, that sideways look, a crimson flash.

  ‘Look,’ I said. ‘I can’t see the pilot being too happy about this. And you – wouldn’t you be better off with a faster boat?’

  ‘They’ll be looking for fast craft,’ the marauder said. ‘This isn’t my usual style.’ She cast a disparaging glance around the dingy cabin. ‘That makes it perfect. And you won’t turn me in, will you? Because that would draw too much attention to you.’

  I was silent. Telling Peto to turn the marauder over to the authorities would mean the captain asking awkward questions of myself, and I didn’t want that.

  ‘Besides,’ Rubirosa added casually, ‘I’ve put a bomb on your boat.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Just as a small guarantee. It’s only a small bomb. But it will put a large hole in it. As soon as we get to the Noumenon, I’ll disable it, don’t worry.’

  I stared at her. She gazed back, with a kind of ruthless innocence. ‘Just who did that dreadnought belong to?’ I said.

  ‘Let’s just say it was someone very rich.’ She gestured upwards. ‘Your captain will be wondering where you are. Shall we?’

  I was, not unnaturally, quite correct. Peto was not happy to find a pirate and an explosive device suddenly installed on her barge.

  ‘It’ll take a while, mistress, before we reach the Shadow Clans,’ she warned. Her squashed face glowered in the direction of Rubirosa.

  The marauder shrugged. ‘I’d rather get there slowly than not at all.’ She sat down on a container with a flicker of haunt-tech and examined an armoured arm. Something had scorched across it, leaving a rusty stain.

  Peto said, ‘I don’t want that stuff on my boat. Bad enough that you’ve set a bomb on it.’

  Rubirosa, having got what she wanted, raised a conciliatory hand. ‘I’ll have no need. You don’t object to an antiscribe?’

  ‘Do what you need to do,’ Peto said, very sourly. ‘But no funny business.’

  There had, I thought, been quite enough of that already.

  We reached the cut-off about mid-afternoon, when a sombre chill had descended upon the canal and the sun hung low over the plains. The capsized ferry, now righted, had kept pace with us, a little way behind, but hugged the bank with its remaining passengers. After what had befallen it, I couldn’t blame the pilot for her decision: the keening sounds of mourning for the drowned occasionally floated across the water, chilling my blood and reminding me of the dreadnought, whose attacker we now carried. I spent some time down in the hold, ostensibly checking the security of the containers, but Rubirosa watched me with a prey-bird’s eye and I knew that she was not fooled. There was no sign of the bomb and I wondered whether she’d even had time to set one, whether we should call her bluff. Once I’d finished as much of the pretence as I could sustain, therefore, I went back up the steps onto the deck and sat in a patch of thin sunlight. I ran a small antiscribe borrowed from Peto, which had basic facilities for such things, and ran an anomalies check.

  There was something. I couldn’t tell what it was or where it lay, but the antiscribe showed me a hot-spot somewhere on the barge and that, most probably, indicated the presence of explosives. The way that the symbol fluttered across the screen meant haunt-tech, too, and was separate from the larger mass of Rubirosa’s armour. Something independent, something moving, it looked like, and I knew from experience that this might be something very small and fragile, perhaps some kind of mesh. From experience, too, I knew how devastating such devices could be. I decided not to take any chances, but shared my findings with Peto.

  The captain was, ultimately, pragmatic. ‘So, she’s heading for the Noumenon. So are we. I’ll insist that she gets off just before the border, in case customs find her. If we’re harbouring a criminal, you can’t see us being welcome, can you?’

  I couldn’t. ‘That reminds me,’ I said. ‘Do I need papers, for the Noumenon? All my documentation got left behind in Caud, it was such a rush to get out.’

  They’ll usually accept bribes,’ Peto said. ‘You have money, don’t you?’

  ‘I’ve got a chip.’

  ‘I think you’ll find that they’ll take whatever you’ve got.’

  Somehow, this did not surprise me.

  The cut-off was clearly visible now: a squat guard tower flying warning pennants of cross-canal traffic, a signal system that I did not fully understand but which was apparently familiar to Peto. High in the guard tower there was a flash as someone’s binoculars caught the late sun. Peto was squinting against the light.

  ‘It’s closed. We’ll have to see if they’re letting traffic through.’ Her heavy face was frowning and I knew why: what action might our unwelcome guest take, if we were not allowed passage? I hoped she’d have the decency to deactivate whatever device she’d installed and go on her way. But decency wasn’t common Martian currency these days, especially amongst Rubirosa’s kind. Or, indeed, mine. It struck me that the marauder might simply take us down into the cargo hold and dispatch us, leaving no witnesses behind her. If so, I promised myself, I wouldn’t go down without a fight.

  When we came to the cut-off, Peto signalled a left turn and hauled the barge across the channel, heading for the series of locks that led down onto the Plains. I could see the cut-off canal clearly now: a silver line leading, arrow-straight, towards the mountains, which towered, deceptively
close, above the wintry grassland. I knew how far they were and yet I could see the lines of glaciers snaking down through the rocks, all of it ghostly in the pale light as if sketched onto the sky.

  We were stopped. Just as the barge came to a wallowing halt, Rubirosa’s voice whispered in my ear, ‘Not a word, now!’ She sounded quite cheerful about it; doubtless she felt she held the upper hand. As indeed, she did. I turned to retort, but there was only a glitter of haunt-tech, vanishing into the shadows of the cargo hold.

  Peto had to hand over a seemingly endless series of document chips, all of which were carefully stamped through a rudimentary blacklight device, but it appeared that it was the boat that mattered, not the personnel. Secretive though they were, the Noumenon didn’t seem to have Caud’s degree of paranoia and the barge was not searched. I remained on deck, watching as the ferry disappeared slowly down the canal, accompanied by the other vessels that I had come to regard as neighbours during our time on the Grand Channel. I wondered what had become of the Centipede Queen and her entourage, feeling the prickle of darksight that suggested I would see them again. It was one of the abilities that the Matriarchy had tried to train in me, but this one had remained largely useless. It gave me future glimpses of cups of tea, shop assistants, oncoming weather – rarely anything of real value or use. Whether my future meeting with the Centipede Queen would be among the latter, I did not know.

  At last Peto was done. The door to the cargo hold remained closed. The first of the locks was activated from the guard tower and we moved through, leaving a queue of boats behind us. It appeared that we’d have company on our journey through the mountains; I wondered what that might bring.