The Ingenious

by Darius Hinks

  “But how? Have you got some men you can lend me?”

  “No need, Isten. I have been thinking and it occurs to me that I can loan you something far more powerful.”

  Isten struggled to follow his gist, still enjoying the tumbling petals of light that surrounded everything. She sipped her tea, sat upright again and tried to focus. “What do you mean?”

  Alzen looked around to make sure they weren’t overheard. “I have pushed the boundaries of the Art, Isten – I have studied an area of the discipline so elevated that my fellow phraters have never even heard of it.” His voice trembled with emotion, he was so awed by his own achievement. “I have almost mastered the…” His words trailed off. “Well, let us say, I have developed a form of unshackled magistery, a skill that my brethren cannot even dream of.” He reached across the table and took Isten’s hand.

  Even dazed by the vistula, she was disgusted by his touch, but she forced herself to leave her hand where it was.

  “I have almost freed the Art from the laboratory,” he whispered, his eyes shining behind his mask. “I can soon practice alchymia without need for all the hindrances and paraphernalia.”

  Isten shook her head, still unsure what he was trying to tell her. Like the rest of Athanor, she had no understanding of what the Elect did behind the impregnable walls of the Temple District.

  Alzen laughed. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. The point is this: the particular disciplines I am studying will enable me to do something that a Curious Man has never done before. I can channel the Art through the flesh of a vulgar commoner. I can perform alchymia through you.”

  Dazed as she was, Isten knew that this was an incredible statement to make. “That’s forbidden,” she muttered. “A commoner cannot be… I can’t practice the Art. I’d be executed.” She laughed at the absurdity. “And I’m not just a commoner, I’m a woman. They would have to invent new ways to torture me.”

  “Who would believe that you could wield alchymia? No one. Because you can’t. Don’t you see? That’s the beauty of it. That’s why it’s safe. No one would ever dream that you had channelled my power. No one knows that’s possible. Only me. I can work through you, and while I’m destroying Sayal through your hands, I can be miles away in some highly visible place, giving me the perfect alibi.”

  Of all the things Alzen had said, this seemed the most outlandish, but Isten found herself carried along by his excitement. “So it would be as though I were… As though I were a Curious Man, performing alchymia?”

  Alzen waved a dismissive hand. “Of course not. You would only be a conduit. You’d have no understanding of the transfigurative power passing through you.” He shrugged and took his hand back. “The point is that I could turn all my power on Sayal, crushing him and his brothers, and neither of us could fall under suspicion. Even if you were seen entering the Bethsan Palace, no one would dream of suggesting you were responsible for the ensuing destruction. And my brothers would never think of accusing me, because I wasn’t there.”

  Isten nodded. The idea was troubling. The thought of Alzen working his sorcery through her was obscene, but obliterating Sayal with arcane powers would give her the victory she needed. She could picture his shocked expression as she transformed him into whatever absurd creation Alzen had decided on. Her excitement was dampened by the memory that the vistula would wear off in a few hours. “What about the cinnabar?”

  “We have to deal with Sayal first, but that can happen tonight. With your bravery and my skill, he won’t stand a chance. Then, with the Aroc Brothers out of business, the city is yours. I have the first shipment ready and waiting for you. You can start selling it as soon as Sayal is dead.”

  Isten nodded. “But in the meantime…”

  Alzen looked confused for a moment, then laughed. “You want another sample?” He gave her an apologetic smile. “I have none on me. I came straight here from the observances. But you have the money I gave you. There was plenty there to buy some. I’m sure you have friends on the Blacknells Road who could help.”

  Isten shuffled awkwardly in her seat, until she settled on an appropriate lie. “I lost the purse when we were fighting in the catacombs.”

  He shook his head like a despairing parent and took out another purse, then hesitated and put it back in his robes. “You look like death. And I don’t believe you’re going to spend any of this on food.”

  He called Torus back out and pressed a coin in his hand.

  “Bread and wine,” said Alzen, blessing Torus with one of his serene smiles. “Before my friend expires at your table.”

  13

  The city wheezed, pulling at the seams, pregnant with promise. Aornos filled the sky with their young, vast, chromatic, seed clouds, banking and billowing, draping the spires of Baphyrus Street, anointing crowds of ecstatic pilgrims and clogging the foetid drains. Tearful ossops dyed their pupae indigo, smothered them in kisses and then hurled them into the Saraca, praying that the weakest would drown in its metallurgical currents, leaving only the strong to return. At the moment of their death, herds of krios set themselves alight, birthing calves from their ashes, not living to see their blinking, canker-clad young. Life crept and bubbled, stirring in doorways, seething through Athanor’s limbs, fuelling its hidden fires, sublimated and amalgamated, saltpetre and sand, burned and betrayed, never guessing the truth, never feeling the crucible, never seeing the Curious Men.

  Gamala. Garden of Athanor. Emerald cool and hazed by mist. Like much of the city, its foundations had fallen away, leaving a tangled armature of trunks, avenues and bridges; soaring, root-bound limbs, tumbling around each other, cradling its precious ward of parks and palaces – the hidden sanctuaries of the city’s elite. Collectively, Athanor’s nobility were known as laborators – glorified servants, permitted to enter the outer precincts of the Temple District and even allowed to serve the Curious Men. They were scholars, theorists and diplomats, plucked from the masses at the time of conjunction and spared the brief, messy existence allocated to their less fortunate countrymen.

  It was early evening as Isten approached the Bethsan Palace. She passed the distant facades of grand houses, leviathans, half-hidden from the road by groves of olive trees and surrounded by long, ornamental lawns. She had seen Gamala before and instinctively hated the place. It reminded her of the Royal Precincts back in Rukon, where her mother’s enemies had plotted her murder over cards and wine. Nothing could seem more absurd than a brute like Sayal living here, acting the part of a high-born noble while his brothers sold sex and addiction to the great unwashed on the Blacknells Road.

  But Isten was only half aware of her surroundings. Much of her attention was fixed on the numbness that had overtaken the left-hand side of her skull. Before she left the teahouse in the Alcazar, Alzen placed his hand on her head and performed what he called a “lesser conjunction”. At the time, still lost in the blissful embrace of the vistula seeds, Isten had seen no harm in it, dazzled by the prospect of wielding Alzen’s power. But now, with her euphoria fading, Isten felt a crushing fear. She had let Alzen into her mind. She could feel him in there, smirking beneath her skull, a malign passenger, watching the city through her eyes. Would he see her thoughts? Would he see her plan to ditch him once she had killed Sayal? She scratched at her thick, tangled hair, wishing she could claw him out.

  She reached the edge of the Bethsan estate and headed down a wide, tree-lined road. There was a wall and a gatehouse half a mile away and, even with dusk approaching, she could see movement inside the gatehouse – shapes silhouetted by a fire, passing back and forth behind windows sunk deep in crumbling, stone embrasures.

  Isten stayed in the shadow of the trees and sheathed her sword as she edged closer.

  “What now?” she whispered as she neared the wall, but she could already feel a strange sensation in her hand. It felt numb, like the side of her head, but it was also tingling and itching. She held it up and spread her fingers. At first, it looke
d unchanged, but then she noticed that her veins were unusually vivid, as though lit from within, cords of sapphire, throbbing over her finger bones.

  Isten.

  She whirled around at the sound of the voice, drawing her sword, but there was no one else on the path.

  She dropped into a crouch, staring into the gloom.

  The voice laughed.

  “Alzen?” She lowered her sword, feeling nauseous. The voice was in her head.

  He sounded amused. Were you expecting someone else?

  The last effects of the vistula seeds faded and she tasted the full horror of what she had done.

  Is that the gatehouse?

  “How long will you be in my mind?” she demanded, ignoring his question, her panic rising.

  An hour or two. I’m unable to perform an act of true conjunction on a vulgar mind. So far at least. Who knows? It could be possible, given time, to impregnate your thoughts with–

  “Get out!” she hissed, gripping her head and feeling her sanity straining. “I didn’t understand. This isn’t right. I can’t share my mind.”

  Stay calm. It will seem strange at first, but you will become used to it.

  “Get out!” She gripped her skull even tighter. To have his voice in her thoughts was dreadful. It was like feeling a snake twisting in her stomach.

  I’m not truly in your thoughts. I don’t know what you’re thinking. I can’t share your memories or see your plans. I can only talk to you and see a shadow of what you see.

  Isten took a few deep, slow breaths, leant against one of the trees and took out a wine skin that she had brought with her from the Alcazar. She drank what was left, gulping it down, not pausing for breath until the skin was empty. Dizzying warmth flooded her head, dulling her fear. She waited a few moments, feeling the alcohol rush through her veins, then she opened her eyes and looked around. She was insane. There was no other way to describe the sensation. She was sharing her head.

  “Never again,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

  If that’s what you wish. We’ll kill Sayal and then communicate by more normal methods.

  Isten was still taking deep, slow breaths. Her heart had slowed a little and the thought that all this would soon be over went some way to calming her nerves.

  “Tell me then,” she said, glancing back at the gatehouse. “What do I do?”

  She could feel Alzen’s excitement in his reply. Draw your sword and knock on the door. When you attack I’ll channel my alchymia through your blade.

  “Knock on the door?”

  Trust me, Isten. Purity and devotion are the hallmarks of my creed. I would not lie to you. This will work.

  Whatever the Curious Men were, Isten doubted they were honest. They promised too much and gave too little for that to be the case. But, he was speaking directly into her mind. He clearly did wield power. And the city was littered with signs that the Curious Men’s alchymia was real. She grimaced and edged closer to the gatehouse, taking another cautious look through the windows. Now that she was closer, she saw that there were only two guards waiting inside. Even if Alzen’s claims came to nothing she could still probably take them on. She was shaking from lack of cinnabar, but the wine had dulled the tremors and the food she ate in the Alcazar had brought back some of the vigour she felt with the Sisters of Solace.

  “Fine,” she muttered, gripping the falcata tightly and striding out onto the path.

  She heard alarmed voices coming from the gatehouse before she even reached the door, but she hammered her sword hilt on it all the same.

  The door flew open and she backed away, sword raised as the two Aroc Brothers emerged. They were as hulking as the ones she had left in the catacombs and they were sporting the same ridiculous, greasy kiss-curls. They wore no festival masks and Isten grimaced at the sight of their translucent faces. They stepped onto the path, loading bolts into iron-plated crossbows.

  “Is that her?” said one of them, frowning.

  “Who?” grunted the other one.

  “The Exile.”

  Isten raised her falcata and the tingling in her palm became an explosion of heat. She gasped, almost dropping the blade, feeling as though fire was coursing from her skull, down her arm and into the sword.

  “What’s that?” grunted one of the Aroc Brothers. They were both staring at her in surprise.

  Isten looked down and gasped in shock. Her arm was sheathed in metal strands, interlaced like the delicate openwork of an incense burner. The filaments were stretching and curling, enveloping the sword handle.

  “What are you?” muttered one of the Aroc Brothers, backing away, his crossbow hanging forgotten in his grip.

  The wine in Isten’s veins merged with a new, even more exhilarating intoxication. She felt like a torch, kindled into flame, charged with furious energy.

  She laughed and dived forwards, swinging her sword.

  The falcata disintegrated, exploding into a shower of metal strands. They ripped through the air and smashed into the guards.

  As the guards fell away from her, light flashed in her eyes, blinding her, but she could still feel the inferno blasting through her bones. It was like no high she had ever experienced.

  She closed her eyes, savouring the power jolting through her body as the sword bucked and kicked in her hand.

  Then, as suddenly as it came, it was gone.

  The storm passed and she staggered backwards, trailing smoke and coughing, her nostrils clogged with a sulphurous stink.

  As the alchymia left her veins her laughter faded. She felt hollow and inert.

  The smoke cleared and she saw what she had done to the guards. They were sprawled on the floor, contorted, frozen in their death throes, so swamped in metal tracery that they were barely recognizable. Their faces were fixed in silent screams and their metal shrouds were glowing and smoking, as though newly forged.

  Dazed, Isten looked down at her arm. The metal tracery had vanished and her skin was normal again. The falcata had also regained its usual form, with only a few wisps of smoke revealing what had just passed through it.

  Isten reached for the wineskin, then cursed as she remembered it was empty. The heat had gone from her veins, but she could still feel the numbness in her skull.

  “Alzen?” she whispered.

  Did it work? Even disembodied, she could hear the breathless excitement in his voice.

  “What was meant to happen?” She stared at the smouldering corpses.

  Transfiguration. My alchymia should have transmuted your opponents into a different element.

  “They’re like Amoria.” She felt a mixture of excitement and horror at what she had just done.

  Amoria?

  “My friend. She died in the warehouse by the Azof embassy, turned to metal.”

  Then it worked. Alzen sounded even more excited.

  “You sound surprised. You said I could trust you. Weren’t you sure if this would work?”

  I knew. But you must understand, no phrater has ever managed to channel alchymia through the mind of a vulgar commoner before. My skills have–

  “Fine. You’ve managed to dilute your essence with my pondwater blood. What now?”

  You don’t have long. Sayal has summoned his brothers and they’ll start arriving soon. It won’t take long for someone to discover what you’ve done. Even with my help you’d be wise to kill Sayal before everyone else arrives.

  Isten rushed through the gatehouse and began running up the road. “Will it work the same way?” she whispered. “When I attack?”

  It will work better. The alchymia is growing accustomed to your quintessence. I will be able to channel even greater power through you this time.

  Isten felt a rush of excitement as she ran, imagining how that would feel. The wine was affecting her balance though. She was lightheaded and clumsy, weaving across the path.

  “What about those crossbows? Even if his guests haven’t arrived, S
ayal will be well guarded. It won’t matter how much metal I make if everyone fires at once.”

  True. Alzen thought for a moment. Wait here. Let me try something.

  Isten stopped and leant against the nearest tree. There was a bend in the road up ahead but still no sign of the palace.

  As she stood there, beneath the boughs of the tree, heat blossomed in her skull again. This time, rather than horror, she felt excitement and a strange kind of hunger. She closed her eyes, willing the power to consume her, delighting in its molten heat.

  Rather than pulsing through her arm into the sword, the alchymia radiated out through her skin, bristling and rippling over her body, making her feel as though she were caught in a summer storm. The sensation grew so delightful and intense that Isten began to laugh again.

  After a few seconds, she realized it was not going to stop. She opened her eyes and beheld a glorious transformation. Her whole body was encased in a living, golden mesh – the same shapes that had enveloped the guards. She raised her arm, staring in wonder as the strands rolled and reformed, accommodating her movement with a shimmering, tumbling dance. She looked like Athanor. Alzen had clad her in the skin of the city.

  “What is this?” she whispered. “What am I?”

  Alzen sounded as awed as she did. The Ingenious.

  “The what?”

  Nothing. Alzen’s excitement quickly faded. He sounded annoyed that he had used that word. You are a glimpse of what I will become – of what I have been working towards all these years. Soon, I will… He sounded guarded. I’ve armoured you with alchymia. That’s all you need to know. You are like one of the Ignorant Men. You’re tempered by sacred fire.

  Isten walked away from the tree, grinning, unable to contain her delight. She felt spring-heeled and full of vigour. She felt weightless, as though she could have leapt from the ground and soared across the treetops. She lashed out with her sword and burnished tendrils spiralled through the air, engulfing a tree and turning it into a beautiful, lifeless sculpture, veined with copper, gold and silver.