by Darius Hinks
Isten was still struggling to focus on him. “What…” She shook her head, battling to get her words out. “How do you know they were agents?”
“Because they looked exactly like imperial agents. And they were behaving how you’d imagine spies to behave – sneaking around and tailing me.”
“We’d better watch our backs,” muttered Lorinc, but his eyelids were drooping and he sounded as though he had only half followed what Brast had said.
Isten went and sat next to Brast. “How could they have come here from Rukon?”
He shrugged.
“But you don’t think they were from Athanor?”
He shook his head. “I’ve never seen them before. They’ve both been badly burned at some point. Their heads were a complete mess of scars. I know there are hundreds of us in this city, but over the years I think I’d remember people who looked like that. And their accents were still strong, like ours were when we first arrived here.”
Isten thought for a moment, looking at the now snoring Lorinc, thinking about what he’d said about getting home. “If it was true, and we knew how they’d travelled to Athanor, we could maybe find a way to get home by the same method.”
“Maybe they just happened to be in whatever place Athanor has just arrived at. Maybe it was a fluke. They could have been travellers, far from home in some foreign land who just happened to be in the vicinity when Athanor appeared in the sky – and then they could have just got dragged in with all the other new immigrants.”
“But, according to Colcrow, they’re here deliberately, working for Emperor Rakus, trying to find out if I’m alive. And if they were spying on you, that would seem to fit. That implies Rakus sent them here.”
Brast looked away from her, out at the city, at the thousands of glittering lights that surrounded them. From here they could see the river, still busy with lamp-lit barges and tugs. “I suppose...” he muttered.
There was a smash of splintering wood and a howl of pain from over near the hole in the roof. One of the headhunters had managed to sever an ear. The injured savage was laughing as he tried to stem the jet of blood rushing from his head and most of the others were just as hysterical. The axe-wielder was trying to grab the injured man and stop the bleeding. The Aroc Brothers in the group were helpless with laughter. Only the weazen seemed unamused. It was busy trying to walk, drunkenly, along the apex of the roof, without plunging to the Blacknells Road.
Brast stared at them in disbelief.
Isten grimaced, imagining how grotesque and embarrassing this must all look to someone like Brast. She thought of what Gombus would say, or even Puthnok.
“Can you remember the route you took when they followed you?” she asked him.
He was still watching the bloody scene behind her with sneering disbelief. “What?” he said. “What route?”
“Can you remember where you went when the imperial agents were following you?”
“Oh. Yes, but there’s nothing to say they’ll be there again.”
Isten watched as the injured headhunter found his severed ear and began waving it at everyone, shaking with laughter.
“It’s worth a try,” she muttered, suddenly keen to leave the temple.
21
What is it, she asked, no more than three or four years old, grasping with her fat little fist. Gombus smiled and pulled the ring free. It was made of soft, russet gold, covered in dents and hanging on a chain around his neck. It was your mother’s, he said, holding it tight. Isten snatched the memory and buried it, panicked, afraid to let her thoughts catch the light. Why would he have kept her mother’s wedding ring?
It took Isten and Brast nearly half an hour to climb down safely from the roof and fight their way through the crowd to the front doors of the temple, but even then, with the first hint of dawn colouring the sky, there was no sign of the celebrations ending. Isten was glad to be away. For the last week or so she had enjoyed the sense of triumph, and freedom from fear, but now, as she staggered back out onto the Blacknells Road, she could feel the falsity of it all. The Exiles might be at the top of the heap, but it was a pitiful heap. True power was as far out of her reach as ever, hidden beyond the curved, impenetrable walls of the Temple District.
Brast was watching her with his usual wry expression, as though sensing her comedown, but he held back from making any comment as they padded off between the arches of twisted metal that covered the street. They made their way through the docks with the sun beginning to glimmer through the city’s loops and curls and finally, around an hour later, they reached Crassus Street and, at its far end, the sprawling, driftwood facade of Alabri House. Through the building’s arched verandas, Isten could glimpse its peaceful gardens and she felt an overwhelming yearning to enter. But then, as they walked down the street, she had the dreadful feeling that she would not be welcome – that her union with Alzen would be seen as too strange and unwholesome, even for the Sisters of Solace. She remembered her reflection looking back at her from the Sign of the Sun, dressed in the saffron-hued finery Alzen had loaned her. She should have burned the robes and discarded the chains and keys – they would be hard to explain if discovered, but something had stopped her. She had stashed them in a chest in her room at the temple, the bright yellow cloth buried beneath sacks and piles of black leather war gear. The Sisters would know, she realized, as they approached the path leading to the front door. They would see her desire for Alzen’s grotesque sorcery.
“You’re not going in?” Brast looked surprised as she halted at the bottom of the path and turned to face the street.
She shook her head. “If I go in there I could be gone for another year,” she said, trying to sound flippant, but she could not hide the worry in her voice.
“Surely you owe them thanks,” he replied, speaking with his usual scorn. “Didn’t they introduce you to your secret contact? Aren’t they responsible for your good fortune?”
Good fortune. The words did not seem to fit how Isten was feeling. She shook her head. “Where were you when you first spotted the agents?”
He watched her for a moment longer, a curious expression on his face, then he shrugged and nodded to a building opposite. A much humbler structure than Alabri House with a narrow alleyway running down its side. “I saw him there, loitering by the wall. I could see he was one of us at first glance, but I didn’t think too much of it.” He nodded down the road to a crossroads. Like many of the crossroads in Athanor, it looked more like a petrified explosion than a cross, with roads stretching up and down as well as left and right. “But then, when I headed down towards the Valeria Bazaar, I noticed that he was following me, and doing it in such a ridiculously nonchalant way that it had to be on purpose.”
Isten crossed over the road to look at the alleyway. A few lizards scattered at her approach, but there was no sign of anyone lurking in the early morning shadows.
“This leads to Troas Square,” she muttered. “He could have come from any direction.” She strode back onto the street and headed for the crossroads, taking the road that plunged down into the city. It was a steep incline and she was still drunk, so they linked arms as they walked, like an elderly couple. The sky was cloudless but it was too early to be hot and there was a wonderful clearness to the air that combined with wine and cinnabar to wash away the sadness that gripped her when she saw Alabri House. It was ridiculous, but she suddenly felt certain she was going to find the agents. All these years she had thought it insane that the Exiles might be able to find a way home, but today, with the sun glinting on the walkways overhead and the fresh morning air in her lungs, anything seemed possible.
As she walked, she thought about the Saraca, snaking and rolling through the city, its oily waters crashing against the boats and hovellers. Then she pictured the lean-tos gathered at its banks. She saw a crowd gathering in the junk-strewn mud, with the dawn flashing on the river behind them. She paused. The image was oddly vivid. She wondered why she was dayd
reaming, with such clarity, about the river.
Brast looked at her, frowning. “What’s the matter?”
She shook her head. “That cinnabar we’ve been selling. It’s strange stuff.”
“Do you need a rest?”
She shook her head again, but the scene on the riverbank was growing even clearer in her thoughts. It seemed less like a daydream and more like an actual dream. The crowds of scavengers and beggars were forming around a glittering object that was jolting down the beach. It was a palankeen. It was taller than the crowds, its gold, wire-framed, egg-shaped carriage visible over their heads, lurching and swinging from side to side as it approached a hut. As the palankeen neared the ramshackle structure, Isten’s viewpoint changed. She was no longer looking at the carriage from afar; she was inside it, looking out, viewing the crowds through the ornate, delicate bars of its cage. The vision seemed more real than the road in front of her. She could smell the unwashed mob that was pressing around the palankeen, wailing prayers and begging for help, and she heard the gulls, screaming overhead, fighting over scraps. Attendants drove back the crowds and the egg-shaped carriage unlaced itself, revealing the marvellous ingenuity of its mechanisms. She stepped down and waved at the crowds, giving them her blessing, then turned to face an old man who hobbled out of the hut, leaning on a stick. He bowed to her, his eyes full of tears. “It’s my son,” he said. His voice was trembling with fear, but he still held himself with dignity, even when addressing one of the Elect.
“You’ve done all you can for him,” she heard herself say. It was not her voice, but it was familiar. “I’m Phrater Alzen. I’ve come to ease his passing.”
As she spoke the words “Phrater Alzen”, the dream vanished and Isten was left facing Brast. He was staring at her in shock.
“What did you say?”
Panic gripped her. “Nothing. I mean, it’s gibberish.” She tried to laugh. “This cinnabar is so powerful. I’m still seeing things.” She gave him a troubled look. “What did I say?”
“You said you were a phrater and that you’ve come to ease my passing.” Brast always wore the same polished veneer of derision and cool, but his mask had slipped. He looked horrified. “Who is your contact?”
“A man I met in Alabri House who wanted to shaft Sayal as badly as we did.”
They stared at each other.
“Who is Phrater Alzen?” asked Brast, wincing.
“I’ve no idea.”
The lie was so obvious that Brast’s grimace grew even more pronounced.
“It’s just the cinnabar,” she muttered. “I’m talking gibberish.”
Brast shook his head and looked at the crossbow strapped to Isten’s back. “Only the Elect make these weapons.”
“I stole them.”
He closed his eyes, massaging his greasy mop of hair, as though battling a headache. “What have you got us mixed up in?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.” She was growing annoyed with him. “I’ve armed us and saved us from starvation. Now, if you’ll show me the rest of this route, I might even be able to get us all home.”
He nodded, loosed his head and began staggering off down the street, but he still had the same anguished expression on his face and he would not meet her eye as she lurched after him.
By the time they reached the Valeria Bazaar, the stallholders had already arrived and begun unloading their wares. Sacks of grain, tea and spices were slammed down onto the paving stones as Isten and Brast made their way past the entrance and carried on down the street.
“I was heading for that park,” said Brast. His voice sounded oddly flat and he was still avoiding her gaze.
Isten’s mind was racing. What would she do? Would Brast tell the others what she had said? He had no love for the other Exiles, but if he had guessed that she was in league with the Elect he might feel duty-bound to warn the others where all their newfound wealth had come from. She could not let that happen. She imagined the look on Gombus’s face if he found out the beloved daughter of the revolution had sunk so low she was working with Athanor’s despotic elite. She could not bear for him to learn of this final disgrace.
She nodded for Brast to continue towards the park, wondering what she could do to stop him.
He finally looked at her and she saw fear in his eyes. “The first of them was joined by a second,” he said, speaking in the same numbed tones. “I saw him come out of the bazaar.”
They entered the arboretum, hit by the scent of the frankincense trees as they approached the tomb on the hill.
Isten stumbled to a halt and leant against one of the trees, her head full of another vision. She was now inside the riverside hut, standing over a youth sleeping on a heap of sacks. The youth was emaciated and his skin was an unwholesome grey, but hope flashed in his eyes as he looked up at her. “Phrater,” he said, trying to sit up and bow. She placed a comforting hand on his frail arm and took out a silver, egg-shaped box. Isten remembered it from when she first met Alzen in the library at Alabri House.
“Don’t worry,” she said, speaking to the youth in Alzen’s voice as she opened the egg and lifted out a sheet of cloth. “I’ve come to help you.”
The vision faded and, once again, she was left facing Brast’s dazed expression.
He shook his head and backed away. “What have you done?” he whispered.
She reached out but he turned and bolted, weaving unsteadily between the contorted trees and heading back towards the park gates.
Isten was horrified. He was going to tell the others. Everything would be over. No Exile would ever speak to her again.
Without thinking about what she was doing, she whipped the crossbow from her back and aimed it at the fleeing figure of Brast.
The sun had now cleared the rooftops and the arboretum was empty. She had a clear shot. Her finger hovered over the trigger.
Then she lowered the weapon and watched Brast vanish through the gates.
She threw down the crossbow, dropped onto the grass and slumped against the tree, weak with despair.
As she sat there, she stared at the discarded weapon, considering how close she had come to killing Brast. It was cool in the shade of the tree and she had the unnerving sensation that she was a corpse, that she had died weeks ago and spent the intervening time as some grotesque kind of revenant, masquerading as Isten while actually being just another device employed by the Elect. At the thought of the Elect, she was back in the hovel, draping the sheet of cloth over the confused-looking youth, seeing through Alzen’s eyes.
“I have mastered the Art,” Alzen said. “I alone have found the way to achieve the ultimate transformation. I alone have learned how to become the Ingenious.”
The youth seemed powerless to reply as Alzen spread the cloth over his wasted limbs. To her horror, Isten realized that the cloth was actually skin. She could see the outline of hands and arms, and even a stretched, eyeless face.
“My power is already greater than any phrater within living memory,” said Alzen as the skin wrapped itself around the terrified youth. “I learned that the ultimate catalyst is the human soul, captured at the moment of flight. At first, I skulked around for windfalls, waiting for people to approach death, but then I realized that the influx of power is even greater if I simply pluck the apple myself.”
The youth managed to groan in horror as the skin settled over his face.
“I understand,” said Alzen, sounding sympathetic. “The pain must be a torment, but console yourself with this fact. When you consumed that cinnabar that the Exiles sold you so cheaply, your soul was ennobled, lifted above your vulgar heritage into something wonderful – into fuel for my glorious fire.”
The youth was twitching and moaning in agony as the skin melted into him, burning the life from him.
Isten cried out in pain, expressing the anguish the youth could not.
Alzen whirled around, looking at the rest of the hovel. He had heard her cry. “Wh
o’s there?” he demanded, rummaging through piles of salvage and scraps of cloth. “I must not be disturbed.”
The image fell away and Isten was back in the arboretum, sobbing and gasping, gripping her head. Dreadful realization flooded through her. Alzen’s power – the power she had channelled, and still craved – was the fruit of murder. Alzen’s power was born of death – from the final, tortured seconds of the innocents that he claimed to be helping. From addicts made ready by the cinnabar she had been selling.
Isten wept and curled into a ball, clawing at her scalp where she could still feel the numbness that signified Alzen’s presence in her mind. Then she remembered the mark on her arm and sat up. She rolled up her sleeve and spat on the faded sigil, rubbing at it furiously. “Never again,” she muttered, as it started to disappear.
Then she halted. It was not enough to erase his mark. Madness and despair were rising in her thoughts, boiling like thunderheads, threatening to blast away what little reason she had left. She had to do more than remove his mark. An idea started to form in her mind. The vision had been reality, she was sure of it. Something unexpected had happened, something Alzen had never foreseen. She had guessed it that day on the Sign of the Sun, when her fury warped the handrail. Her bond with Alzen was deeper than he intended. And it now went both ways. She was starting to see things through his eyes. She could use that. She could use it against him. She had to. Alzen could not be left free to murder more defenceless victims.
Isten’s breathing calmed a little and she rolled down her sleeve, hiding the mark again. The numbness was still there in her mind, the link unbroken.
She took a deep breath and climbed to her feet, leaning against the tree trunk as she stood. She was about to stoop and grab the crossbow, but she could not bring herself to touch it.
A shadow drifted across the grass as someone approached. She dropped into a crouch, drawing her dagger, remembering that she had come to the arboretum looking for imperial agents.
