by Darius Hinks
She waved for the Exiles to gather round and opened the chest to reveal the sacks of cinnabar Alzen had sent her.
The Exiles looked even more shocked. Then Lorinc started to laugh and, quickly, the laughter spread through the group. Even Puthnok was shaking her head, dazed by the size of the haul.
“How?” she demanded, when the laughter had died down. “How did you pay for it?”
“My contact gave it to me for free,” she said.
“Free?” laughed Lorinc. “Why would anyone do that? Who was it?”
“I’ve sworn to keep his identity secret,” she replied. Isten had been worrying about this moment, afraid that the Exiles might guess she was in league with the Curious Men, but now that she came to it, she realized they would never dream of such a connection. It was too absurd to even cross their minds. “That was one of his conditions. The other condition is that we sell the cinnabar at the price he set.”
Lorinc shook his head when she explained how cheap that price was. “Why would he want that? We could sell it for three times that.”
“Because he’s not interested in the money. He wanted Sayal dead and the Aroc Brothers ruined. The cinnabar is my reward for killing Sayal and the low price is to ruin the Aroc Brothers. They won’t be able to compete with us. They’ll be out of business within a month.”
Colcrow had barged his way through the crowd and he smiled at Isten, speaking in his smug, whispered tones. “And what use is all this cinnabar to us if we have to sell it so cheaply? “It sounds like a lot of work for little gain.”
“Look at it, Colcrow,” she said. “Look how much there is. Even at that price we’ll make enough money to buy whatever we want – tar, weapons, more soldiers like these, anything. We’ll own this stretch of the river again.”
“We could own half the city,” muttered Lorinc, glancing at Colcrow. “All the other gangs will be screwed when we flood the market with this.”
“They’ll be on us like dogs,” said Puthnok. “They’ll fight for their lives.”
Isten nodded to the rows of headhunters lining the nave. “And they’ll find us ready. You always said the revolution would be bloody. Well, let’s start it now, here, in Athanor. We can sharpen our blades on the Aroc Brothers’ skulls. Then, when we work out how to get home, we’ll be ready for anything.”
They were all staring at her in amazement as she waved them on, deeper into the temple. Some of the headhunters went ahead, lighting brands on the walls and revealing her next surprise. Each of the chapels off the main room had been furnished with mattresses and blankets and hung with lanterns.
“What is all this?” asked Lorinc, shocked by how she had transformed the place. The floors had been swept and there were piles of clothes and armour next to the beds.
“It’s our fortress,” she said, speaking loud enough for her voice to carry right back down the nave. “We’ll fix the locks and shutters and patch the holes in the roof. We’ll be safe.”
“Ours?” replied Lorinc. “We own it?”
Isten nodded as she led them towards another chapel. “I bought it.”
The headhunters lit more lamps and the Exiles laughed in shock as they saw what the final chapel contained: tables crowded with food and drink and shelves laden with sacks of rice, grains and spices.
“You all look like corpses,” she said, turning to face them, her eyes gleaming in the torchlight. “But from now on we will eat like warriors. We will grow strong and healthy again. And it won’t stop there. I’m going to arm us properly.” She tapped her falcata. “Not like this, but with the modern weapons that the Aroc Brothers used on us. Let’s see how they feel when we turn those weapons on them.”
As she spoke, most of the Exiles were already pushing past her and gathering around the tables, slapping her on the back before grabbing handfuls of food. The room filled with sounds that had been alien to them for years: relieved laughter and cries of pleasure.
Isten enjoyed the moment, smiling at the sight of her countrymen looking happy. Then she noticed the small group that had remained outside the chapel, watching her in silence from the nave: Gombus and Puthnok, regarding her with troubled expressions, and behind them, Colcrow, shaking his head in confusion.
She headed back over to them.
“Someone gave you the cinnabar for free?” said Colcrow, raising an eyebrow.
“It was payment for killing Sayal,” she said, waving at the temple. “Along with the money I used to buy all this.”
Colcrow smoothed his robes over his enormous gut, looking no less convinced. “And you won’t tell us who this mysterious benefactor is?”
She shook her head. “It was his only condition – along with selling the cinnabar at a cut-down price. He was prepared to pay handsomely for the death of Sayal and, obviously, I wanted him dead too, so I was happy to play along.”
Gombus looked at her with concern rather than suspicion. “This seems too good to be true. Are you sure you can trust this stranger?”
“I don’t trust him at all. But he paid me, Gombus, and that’s all that matters.” She looked up at him with more confidence than ever before. “Now we can arm ourselves and drive the other gangs from our territory. We can keep our families safe and we can live in here.” She waved her hand at the temple. “Rather than hiding on the roof. You can leave that stinking doss house and be safe here, Gombus.”
He smiled, but she sensed he did not mean to stay.
“Aren’t you pleased?” she said, looking at all three of them. “We can hope again.”
“Hope for what?” asked Puthnok, looking up at her. She seemed nervous and distracted, fiddling with her glasses whilst watching the headhunters in the nave. “To sell more drugs than anyone else? To be more feared than any other gang?”
“Yes! Exactly that.” Isten’s good humour started to fade. “To grow strong, Puthnok. To finally have a victory.”
Puthnok nodded at the feeding frenzy that was continuing behind Isten. “What victory is that, Isten? Growing rich and fat, lounging around this vile city while half of Rukon is dying in servitude. While the Emperor bathes in the blood of our families. Do you call that a victory?”
Isten had never heard Puthnok speak with such vehemence. She still lacked the courage to meet Isten’s eye, but her little frame was rigid with anger.
“Puthnok,” said Gombus, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Isten is not to blame for the labour camps, any more than she is to blame for our exile.”
Puthnok would not meet his gaze either. She was glaring at the floor. “She has cut that mark from her arm. Even if we could get home to Rukon, she would be worthless. How could we prove who she was without that birthmark? She could be anybody. Who will listen to my manifesto now? What use is any of this? What do we care about ruling the criminals of Athanor? We need to get home. We need to burn down the Checny Palace. Not buy ourselves grand houses on the Blacknells Road.”
“Grand?” laughed Colcrow, looking at the bowed, rotting rafters.
Gombus ignored him. “We are in Athanor, through no fault of anyone here,” he said, looking at Puthnok. “And Isten has found a way to keep us together.”
Isten’s heart swelled as he defended her. “I don’t know how to get us home,” she admitted, looking at Puthnok. “But until we can find a way, I swear to keep us all alive. It’s the best I can offer.” She glanced at Gombus. “I know you hoped for more, but this is all I have. For now, at least.”
He nodded but she could still see doubt in his eyes – not the fury of Puthnok, but doubt all the same.
“And what about you?” she said, looking at Colcrow. “Are you with us again? I know you have resources of your own. Will you throw in your lot with us?”
He closed his eyes, smiling, and took a deep breath. Then he enveloped her hand in his sweaty grip. “Remember who set you off again, Isten. Remember who told you about the shipment in the warehouse.”
She pulled her hand
away, about to remind him that his information led to Amoria’s death, but maybe he was right. Everything did start with her jump into the sewers. If she hadn’t ended up back at the Sisters of Solace, she never would have met Alzen. She bit back her retort and nodded. “Then bring whatever you have here. I’m going to fix the place up and fortify it. There are more rooms than these. The place is big enough to hold hundreds of us. I want to get every Exile in the city back together.”
Colcrow smirked, on the verge of saying something fatuous but, again, the certainty in her voice brooked no dissent. He nodded and looked at his bodyguard, Golo, who was waiting behind the crowd of young girls. “Tell everyone I’m still in touch with. Tell them Isten is marshalling the troops and that I’m signing up for the ride.”
Golo nodded and headed off back down the nave towards the temple doors.
Isten could feel that Puthnok was still seething in silence, but decided now was not the time to deal with her. People were coming away from the feast behind her, gathering around, waiting to see what she would say next, so she climbed up into a pulpit and called out, her voice reverberating through the temple. “Eat your fill,” she cried. “Rest. Drink. Recover. But, when you are done, there is work to do.” She waved at the cinnabar. “Sell as much as you can, as fast as you can. I will be back here tomorrow night at the same time and I want every ounce of it to be gone.” She paused, staring at the upturned faces. “Understood?”
They roared at her, like loyal soldiers, holding up wine bottles and knives, grinning and laughing. The sound echoed around the temple and made Isten’s heart race. She tried to look serious and stern but found herself smiling. “We’re back!” she cried, and they howled again, so loud that even Gombus looked surprised.
As she climbed back down from the pulpit, Lorinc came over to her. “And what will you be doing while we’re all shifting this lot?”
“I’m not done,” she said as she headed to the door. She waved at the headhunters with their grisly implants and the Exiles, grinning as they ate. “This is just the beginning. I’m going to find us weapons to match anything the Aroc Brothers can throw at us.”
“From your mysterious contact?”
She was about to reply when a voice rang out, strong and furious, over the din.
“Where are your fathers?” cried Puthnok, climbing up onto a table and silencing everyone with the rage burning in her eyes. “Where are your mothers? Your brothers and sisters?”
Drinks were lowered and eyes cast awkwardly towards the ground as the Exiles remembered the plight of those they left behind in Rukon.
“How does that food taste?” cried Puthnok, her hands trembling as she waved at the feast. “If you think of your families, wasting in those camps, smashing rocks with broken hands, sleeping in piles like corpses?” She was spitting as she shouted, her eyes full of tears. “Does it taste good?” She stared at Isten. “Does it taste like victory?”
The room was silent apart from Puthnok’s fast, uneven breathing. She pointed at Gombus. “There are some here who remember what fighting means. It does not mean murdering pushers. It does not mean feeding every addiction we can think of so that we can grow fat and safe. That’s not the fight. We should be fighting against tyranny. Perhaps we can’t save our families yet, but there are families here, in this abomination of a city, families that are dying, desperate and afraid with their heads crushed in the gutter by the Elect.”
Isten had never heard Puthnok speak with such fervour, with such confidence. She still looked like a timid, bookish child, but her voice sounded like it was coming from someone larger, someone fiercer.
“While we play these games, while we busy ourselves with pointless turf wars, the Elect are free to do whatever they do in those temples that we can never enter. While we sell drugs to the starving masses the Curious Men hide in their towers and laugh, feeding on all this misery like jackals.”
For a brief, wonderful moment, Isten had known how it felt to win, how it felt to be triumphant, and now, as Puthnok railed against everything she had just said, she felt the moment souring and slipping away. Anger boiled up through her chest.
“What do you want us to do?” she demanded, striding back towards Puthnok. “Charge the gates of the Temple District? Throw ourselves under the feet of the Ignorant Men?”
“There are ways, Isten,” cried Puthnok. She wiped away her tears but her hands were still shaking. “There are things we could do to show the Elect that they have to change, that they have to share their wealth, that they have to feed their people, that they have to fight these plagues. We could burn their ships. We could steal their property. We could deface their statues. Athanor is waiting. This city needs someone to show the way. To rise up and teach them how to really fight. To show them who the real enemy is.”
Puthnok paused to catch her breath, staggering slightly on the table.
Isten looked around and saw, to her disbelief, that some of the Exiles were not looking at Puthnok with derision, but with shock, and perhaps even agreement.
“Start your fucking fires,” snapped Isten, furious at Puthnok for ruining the moment. “Paint the nose of someone’s statue.” She glared at the crowd. “But I suggest the rest of you eat and rest and make yourself strong. Whatever dreams Puthnok might have, our first fight is for survival. We can’t save anyone here, or at home, if we’re dead.” She waved at the filthy walls and cracked windows. “Make this place secure. I’ll be back in a day or two with the weapons we need to stay alive.”
She stormed off towards the doors again. As she reached them, she heard Puthnok addressing the crowd again, quoting from her manifesto, talking about their duty to protect the forgotten and the weak.
Isten paused, her hand on the door, still furious, considering going back to argue again, then she realized it was pointless. Puthnok could preach all she liked. The Exiles would remember who had filled their bellies and given them a roof again. She shoved the doors open and strode out into the night, dizzy with rage.
17
In Rukon the roads lay flat. They hugged the curves of the earth, rising with the land, climbing through forests and meadows but never aspiring to the sky, never pining for the deeps. They led children to mines and innocents to their graves, but at least they held their word. They held to the truth. Isten carried them with her like a necklace, cherishing them, recalling every loop and turn, every gravity-bound stone.
She waited for Alzen on Coburg Street, as they had arranged when she left Bethsan Palace. It was early morning and she had spent a sleepless night prowling the streets. She was too angry at Puthnok to rest, but she also wanted to make sure no one was following her. Some of the Exiles would be fascinated to know who her contact was and she couldn’t risk them blundering in and ruining everything. The fish market was already crowded and noisy but she had chosen a warehouse so dilapidated that no trader ever used it. She sat at the back, perched on shattered crates, hidden in the darkness, her hood pulled low as she looked out into the dazzling sun. Dozens of riverboats were moored at the jetties and hovellers were wading through the shallows, hauling cargo from the boats up into the street, haloed by screaming gulls as they hurled sacks under the awnings.
As she waited, Isten’s mind slipped back to the events at Bethsan Palace. She could not stop thinking about how it felt to have alchymia pouring through her body. She had been an addict long enough to recognize the symptoms. She was craving the power she felt that day. She was hungry to taste it again. When she first met Alzen she felt nothing but revulsion but now, if she pictured his pompous face, there was something else mixed with the loathing: a kind of need. Of all the addictions Isten had battled, this one seemed the most perverse, and the most dangerous. Alzen was a monster but, to her shame, she felt excited about the prospect of seeing him again. It was obscene. Shameful. She felt a wave of self-loathing and stood, preparing to leave the warehouse.
She had only taken a few steps when Alzen arrived, strolling
into the darkness dressed in his scruffy disguise, pretending he was just stumbling through the market.
He peered in her direction as he entered the shadows, momentarily blind from the brightness outside.
“Are you there?” he said, feeling his way along the wall.
“Here,” she muttered, sitting back down with a mixture of fear and excitement.
He shuffled over and sat down next to her. He looked different. Rather than imperious and self-satisfied, he looked hesitant, troubled even. She felt, again, how grotesque their partnership was but, now that she had seen him, the hunger was even stronger. She remembered how it felt to have the alchymia playing across her skin, glittering and rolling, responding to her every movement.
“Has the cinnabar been sold?” he asked.
“It’s happening as we speak,” she said. “We’re going to shift it all by the end of the week.”
He nodded, recovering some of his usual smug demeanour, looking into the middle distance with a half smile. “At the price I specified?”
“Everything is being done as you requested. They know the price and I’ve told them to spread the cinnabar as far as they can across the slums. If they–” She paused, hearing something near the entrance to the warehouse.
Alzen heard it too and stood up, squinting into the daylight.
Isten’s falcata flashed as she drew it and padded over to the door. There was no one there. She peered outside, blinking and struggling to see. People were thronging past but no one seemed interested in her. All the same, she felt troubled as she headed back over to Alzen.
“This is dangerous,” she muttered. “If the other Exiles knew about you everything would be ruined.” She thought of the way the Exiles had looked at Puthnok, and how much more weight Puthnok’s words would carry if everyone knew their feast had come from a Curious Man.
“There’s another way,” said Alzen, his voice sounding oddly hesitant again. “A way we could speak without being together.”
