by Darius Hinks
Again, she felt that peculiar mix of nausea and excitement. If she let him into her thoughts again, it would be possible for him to work his sorcery through her body. But it also meant he would see what she saw, even if, as he claimed, only dimly.
He sensed her hesitation and shook his head. “Only as a temporary measure. You told me you want to seize some of the weapons the Aroc Brothers use. If we combine forces again, I can direct you to the right place, loan you my strength, as I did before, and then you could simply wipe my mark from your arm and be as you were.”
Loan you my strength. The words gave her a shameful rush of excitement. She tried to hide her feelings, speaking in a gruff voice. “How long would it take? How far are the weapons from here?”
He nodded to the riverboats outside.
Isten was so shocked she laughed. “Here?”
“Yes. There’s been trouble at the city walls. A problem with the conjunction. It happens sometimes. People do not always welcome Athanor with open arms. I don’t know the details, but the phrater in charge has ordered reinforcements and supplies.”
“But I can’t board those boats. I’m a commoner. I’m, what would you call me? ‘vulgar.’ I’d be arrested before I set foot on the deck.”
“If you wandered up dressed as you are, yes. But I can make you look like a laborator. I could give you robes, chains of office, keys and directions. No one would question you then.”
“You’re one of the Elect. You have all this power. Why not just channel it through me and spirit me on there?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Spirit you? You do not understand the Art. I cannot simply summon things from the air. Transfiguration is a subtle, complex process that requires hours of preparation.” Excitement flashed in his eyes. “At least, it is until I have completed my great work. I’m close to something wonderful, Isten.” He was speaking with more candour than she had heard before. “I’m close to mastering a new kind of alchymia. And then, once I have transformed myself, once I have been elevated, I will be able to wield power in the way you describe. I and the power will become one. I will become alchymia.” He shook his head, his eyes straining. “I will become the Ingenious.”
“The Ingenious?”
He nodded, but he was looking into the middle distance, seeming to have forgotten her. Then he shook his head. “Besides, even if I did the necessary work to ‘spirit’ you onto the boat, you would still be in danger dressed as you are. Subtlety is what we need, and discretion. If you appear to be a laborator, you can simply board the boat and reach the weapons. That will be quicker and easier and I can spend my time preparing for the theft.”
“So what are you proposing? If you’re not going to use me as a weapon, as you did in the palace, will you need to channel your power through me at all?” She immediately regretted asking him the question, afraid that she was right.
His voice regained its smooth, unctuous tone. “Picture the scene: I’ve got you on the boat. You wait until the weapons are unguarded, then approach the crates, which are as tall as you. How will you get the weapons home?”
“Ah, I see.”
“But, if I return to my cell, and prepare, I will be able to perform an act of transfiguration through you. If you can place your hands on the crates, it will be as though I am there, in the hold. I will be able to use my alchymia to transport the weapons to wherever you need them to be.”
She thought for a moment. “So it would not be like before, in the palace, when I… When I killed Sayal.”
“Not exactly. There would be no need to fight, but there will still be need for our minds to coalesce. I will still need to work through you. If you can reach the hold, and place your hands on the weapons, I can transmute their molecules with sacred fire and…” He hesitated. “It is hard to explain to–”
“To a vulgar person?” Isten was more amused than annoyed. Alzen clearly considered her to be barely human, but here he was, having to work with her to achieve whatever end he was striving for.
He stared at her, his expression unreadable.
“We use the word vulgar in a different way,” he said. “To us it simply means one who is not versed in the Art.”
“And ‘commoner’? What meaning does that word have for you?”
He shook his head.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, looking at the door to the warehouse again. “We should leave. If you put your mark on my arm again, you can get me on the boat, lead me to the weapons and send them elsewhere. Is that what you’re saying?”
He nodded. “If I mark you again, we can part company and still speak by telepathic means. My preparations will take the rest of the day, but I can have everything ready by midnight. Come to this exact spot and your disguise will be waiting for you.”
She laughed as she considered the risk she was taking. “If I’m discovered pretending to be a laborator, I’ll be executed.”
“You won’t be discovered.”
“Where would the weapons appear?”
“Where do you want them?”
“The Alembeck Temple, up on the Blacknells Road.”
He nodded.
She held out her hand, her heart quickening in anticipation, then she hesitated. “Why are you helping me do this? We’re already selling the cinnabar you gave me. I’ve killed Sayal. Why are you taking such a risk to get me those weapons?”
He laughed, and tried to sound blasé, but she sensed he was holding something back. “We’ve barely started, Isten. I want the slums to be awash with my cinnabar. And I want to be sure that no one else is dealing the stuff. We’re rid of Sayal, but there are still hundreds of Aroc Brothers. I want them gone, as much as you do, and if you can’t match their weapons, you’ll have a hard battle on your hands.”
She still hesitated. Clearly, he had been in league with the Aroc Brothers and then fallen out with them; she had guessed that within minutes of meeting him, but there was something else, something he wasn’t telling her. She thought of her shameful hunger – her desire to be bonded with him again. Could it be that he was feeling a similar desire? She must be as repulsive to him as he was to her, but perhaps, somehow, he wanted what she wanted? Perhaps that was why he seemed hesitant?
“If your power is growing,” she asked. “Do we even need weapons? Why not channel your sorcery through me, like you did at the palace? You could just cut them down with your magic.”
“Because no one must know of our partnership,” he snapped, revealing a flash of rage before quickly regaining control and softening his voice. “Because we must be discreet. I will not join you in some running battle through the slums, with all of Athanor watching, but I’ll help you arm yourself and supply you with so much cinnabar that every criminal in the city has to kneel to you.”
She nodded. His explanation made sense. She still sensed he was holding something back, but she decided the rewards were worth the risk. “So, when I’m dressed as a laborator, I simply stroll up to the boat?”
He nodded. “If you look like a laborator, you’ll have no difficulty buying passage, and if anyone speaks to you during the journey, I can prompt your answers.”
“Only men can be laborators.”
“Your face will be painted yellow and you’ll be wearing a hooded robe.” He lowered his gaze, looking at her wiry, muscle-knotted body. “And you’re not particularly…” He waved his hand, searching for the right word.
“I look like a man?” she prompted.
He laughed awkwardly.
She nodded and held out her arm.
As soon as he had drawn the sigil on her skin, she felt that strange numbness at the back of her skull, and the same wash of revulsion. It was disgusting. She could feel Alzen lurking in her thoughts like an unwelcome houseguest, but she also felt thrilled, already imagining how it would feel when his sorcery blazed through her skinny arms, transforming the elements, moulding reality.
“Midnight?” she said, rising to leav
e.
Midnight, he said, leaning back into the shadows to watch her, speaking directly into her thoughts.
18
When the Exiles arrived in Athanor, Isten could only sleep in Gombus’s lap, unable to close her eyes without the lullaby of his rattling chest. As his lungs wheezed a mournful berceuse, she gripped his arm and pictured home – tyrants, riots and burnt remains. We all carry ghosts, said Gombus, but you carry a nation’s dead. Don’t forget them, he whispered as she drifted into dreams. Don’t forget who you are.
Isten had crossed the river many times, but always on foot, hurrying over the contorted bridges that spanned its harlequin currents, never on a boat. She had not paid for a cabin, so she was up on the deck with the crew, watching the light of the mandrel-fires dancing in their wake, caught in the oily wash. The boat was called the Sign of the Sun and its crew were a ragged mix of races and species. They paid no attention to her as they worked, singing and swearing in their peculiar argot as they barged past, manning the rigging and stashing cargo in the hold. Most trade went from the walls into the city, but Isten had been surprised to learn that they also took things back to the walls. Among the cargo she saw crates and sacks branded with the black Athanorian sun – a sign that they were from the Temple District. These must be the supplies for the men at the walls that Alzen mentioned, and maybe exports, headed beyond the walls, to whatever kingdom’s skies Athanor was currently filling. As well as the cargo, a regiment of hiramites had boarded, marching up the ramp in silence, their faces hidden behind the upside-down masks of their conical helmets. They were now sat, still silent, in small groups, polishing their falcatas and checking the fastenings on their armour.
From the river, Isten could see huge swathes of the city, rising over her like the crown of a leafless tree, spurs and strands, silhouetted against the stars. She leant over the gunwale, watching her reflection roll and stretch in the water. She had managed to grease her wild mass of dark hair down so flat that the laborator’s hood almost sat normally on her head, and it was strange to see herself looking so unrecognizable. Her face was dyed with turmeric and her robes were made of heavy yellow cloth, stitched with golden thread and draped with keys and slender gilded chains. She looked regal. Important. The thought made her laugh.
Do you hear me even if I only think the words? she thought.
More clearly than if you speak, replied Alzen.
As he replied, the numbness in her head grew and she realized numbness was not quite accurate – it was more like a warmth, like kindling, just starting to catch.
Where are you now? she thought, suddenly intrigued to know more about him.
It doesn’t matter. His tone had changed again. When they spoke in the warehouse, she had sensed that he was starting to trust her, to treat her as a confidant, but now he sounded cool and distant.
How will I find the weapons?
Just follow the other laborators when they go below. They’ll want to check everything has been stowed safely.
Other laborators? She looked around and saw that Alzen was right. There was a scrum of yellow robes gathered at the stern of the boat, locked in conversation.
What will I say if they speak to me?
I can help with that, but I doubt they’ll acknowledge you. They have business of their own to attend to. See that scythe stitched into their robes? That means they work for Phrater Herbrus, one of my brothers. He’s the phrater who’s out on the wall, watching over the conjunction. He’s having difficulties with our new citizens so these laborators are taking him weapons and ingredients. They’re busy and nervous about leaving the city. They won’t be in the mood to make new friends.
Isten looked down at her own robes and saw the symbol she was wearing: a circle with a dot at its centre, like a simplified version of the Athanorian sun. Which phrater will they think I’m working for. Not you, surely?
No. The sun marks you as a servant of the Elect, nothing more. Not all laborators have a specific master. They’ll consider you an inferior and have no interest in you.
Isten laughed but made no comment. She walked the length of the deck to the prow and stared out into the night. They were hurtling down the river at an impressive speed and she could hear engines grumbling and winding beneath her, causing the hull to judder. Athanor’s riverboats were owned and powered by the Curious Men. Beneath the water, there was an elaborate tangle of mechanisms, fuelled by barrels of highly combustible mandrel-fire stored in the engine room. There were other boats setting off from the riverbank and Isten could see pale fire beneath their hulls, shimmering and flickering beneath the surface of the water.
The Sign of the Sun had already left the docks and was now passing the slums that surrounded the Temple District. Even at this hour there were hovellers wading through the chemical wash, calling out to each other, filling the night with seismic howls, their shells slopping and booming through the waves. From there, the riverboat steered out into the wider river, skirting Gamala’s broad, leafy gardens, then the crumbling domes of the Zechen baths, and then heading so far into the centre of the river that Isten could no longer make out details of the buildings on the shore. Athanor became an abstract glimmer of arcs and loops, but she could still hear sounds, echoing across the bitumen-black water – the clanging of temple bells, the roar of furnaces, even snatches of song, carried for miles on the clear night air, disembodied and truncated, broken up by the tide. It took all of Isten’s will not to be impressed by the beauty of the scene. Athanor was her prison. However hard it tried, she refused to let it seduce her.
The Sign of the Sun was cutting through the night so fast that within an hour Isten saw districts she had never visited. The further one travelled out from Athanor’s centre, the stranger the architecture became. At its heart, in the districts around Verulum Square, the city’s original form could still be seen: domes and minarets, maned and robed in golden spines, but essentially unchanged for thousands of years, but the outer reaches of Athanor bore little resemblance to traditional architecture, devolving into a baffling nest of organic shapes. The streets and towers became indistinguishable from each other – wicker-like skeins and thorn-tipped plaits, bound by the will of the Elect. Isten could still hear sounds of life drifting through the night – spectral voices and bestial calls, intriguing and haunting. She knew that, if anything, life out here was even more abundant and strange than on the Blacknells Road. She had met people from the outlying regions of the city and some had never even heard of the Elect, living in their own, isolated communities, blissfully unaware of the tyrants who kept them one meal away from starvation.
How will I get back? she thought, realizing how far she now was from the Blacknells Road. Will you transport me home, along with the weapons?
No, that would be an altogether different matter. You’ll have to jump from the boat and swim.
She looked out across the water and frowned. She was a strong swimmer, but the Saraca was wide and cold, and the city already looked a long way off.
She looked back at the laborators. Well, we’ll have to move soon then. And there’s no sign of them moving.
I thought they would have headed below decks by now to check everything was secure. You’re right though. If you don’t move soon, you’ll leave the city.
What? What are you talking about? What do you mean leave the city?
This boat is headed for the city walls. And it’s moving a lot faster than I expected. Phrater Herbrus must be in worse trouble than I thought. I wonder if he–
I can’t go to the walls!
Indeed. No. We’ll have to try and find the weapons by ourselves. Can you see the entrance to the hold?
Isten’s pulse quickened as she realized how vague Alzen’s plan was. She had assumed he knew what he was doing. No, she thought, pacing back across the deck. Then she saw a hatch guarded by some of the hiramites. “Maybe that one,” she muttered, heading towards the soldiers.
The soldiers were sit
ting around the hatch, their heads down, hidden behind their helmets with their cloaks pulled tight around their cuirasses. Their falcatas were lying across their laps, still in their scabbards. They all looked to be asleep, or at least resting.
There are hiramites guarding the hatch, she thought.
Really? The Old King is becoming paranoid.
Not so paranoid, thought Isten. We did come here to steal them.
You’re dressed as a laborator. There’s no reason you shouldn’t go below decks. Walk past them and open the hatch.
Isten shook her head at the ridiculousness of the situation, then strode across the deck, looking as confident as she could, and reached down to open the hatch.
Before she had even touched the handle, the one of the soldiers stood up and barred her way.
“What are you doing?” His voice rang out through his silver mask. She could see his real eyes behind the metal, but she still had the unnerving sensation that she was speaking to an upside-down face.
“I- er…” she floundered, unsure how to reply.
Say you have to check your shipment of minerals, said Alzen.
She did as he suggested but the soldier’s eyes narrowed. “I saw you board the boat. You didn’t place anything in the hold.”
The other hiramites stood and gripped the handles of their swords.
Isten felt a flood of anger as she realized what a mess Alzen had landed her in.
“It was loaded before I arrived,” she said, with no idea if that would sound believable.
The soldier looked at his fellow hiramites and then back at Isten. He stepped closer, peering at her face.
“Which phrater sent you here?”
Isten panicked and shook her head.
“Phrater…” Her mind went blank. She could not think of a single name. “I can’t remember.”
The man took a deep breath and she saw suspicion in his eyes. “No one’s going down there. Wait back over by the rails. When we reach the wall I’ll take you to Phrater Herbrus and you can explain to him why you’re here.”
