The Stars Askew

by Rjurik Davidson

  “Henri must have been frightened,” said Kata. “He’s hiding here, isn’t he?”

  The boy ducked into one of the factories without answering, and Kata slipped in after him. Lamplight shining through the broken windows illuminated the haze that hung in the factory, embracing rows of dark machines.

  “Hey, not so quick.” She wondered why he didn’t answer. “You worked for Thom, didn’t you?”

  The boy led her along several pathways between the machines, toward the center of the vast hall. The hazy light caught one side of his face, leaving the rest in shadow. “Yes, I worked for Thom. Come over here. Henri’s here.”

  Something strange echoed in his voice, as if there were a second, deeper voice echoing behind the first. Kata froze. She felt like a thousand ants were crawling over her.

  “How do you know Henri?” Her voice seemed weak in the otherworldly atmosphere.

  “We grew up on the streets.” The boy seemed small, but he seemed to be large, too, in a way she couldn’t comprehend. It was as if there were two of him, the little child and a hulking creature superimposed on top.

  “Of course.” Ice ran up her spine. “Why is he hiding here?”

  “It’s the safest,” said the boy. Now she heard it definitely: the voice, rich and deep echoing within the voice of the child.

  Oh no, thought Kata, backing away: the shapeshifter.

  “Where are you going?” Pol came toward her, was lost for a moment in the shadow of a machine. He emerged again into the light, a lithe woman with a stern face and shoulder-length dark hair. Frosty fear ran along Kata’s arms. The second Kata smiled cruelly. There was something wrong about her dark eyes.

  Kata turned and ran as her double sprang after her.

  “Where are you going?” The double’s voice was cold, probably male.

  Machines whipped past her. Where was the door? She circled the machines several times, guessing at its direction. Pain ran up her damaged ribs and she knew this would hamper her in a fight. Escape was the best option.

  Along one dim passageway she spied the exit, a black slab against the general gloom. She hurried toward it. If she could make it onto the streets, she would escape the trap.

  Her double stepped out into the pathway before her. Now the shapeshifting Kata’s hand glowed an impossible red. Kata slid to a stop. The killer strode toward her, each step more menacing because it was made by some dark replica of her.

  Kata spun and ran deeper into the factory, turning randomly along the rows. She came to a stop, slid down between two machines, and listened.

  The sound of footfalls sent panic through her. The worst of it was that she couldn’t tell how far away the killer was. At times the sounds seemed distant; at other times, almost on top of her.

  She slipped a knife into her hand. Fighting her fear, she waited. The footfalls stopped too, and silence reigned in the factory. It seemed like Kata sat there for an age, straining to hear the slightest sound, the softest steps. Eventually she slid from her position between the machines. As quietly as she could, inch by inch, she moved through the shadows back toward the exit.

  A black figure came at her in the dark, its hand aglow like searing embers packed together. Kata snapped into action. She ducked beneath the reaching hand, catching again a glimpse of two figures—one lithe, the other hulking—superimposed in the dark. She brought her knee up into the chest of her assailant. There was a crushing groan, and she knew she’d struck true. With a backward whipping motion, her elbow cracked into the killer’s head, and the lithe figure evaporated, leaving only a hulking shape stumbling in the darkness.

  She threw a knife, but it spun past the assassin’s ear and rang against a metal machine.

  Kata hoped she might make out the killer’s identity, but all she could see was the beastly shape turning in the dark, its blazing hand ready to strike. She fled, down, down the rows until she reached the door. Plunging into foggy night air, she raced along alleyways until they widened into streets. Figures passed the other way, but she didn’t stop running until she reached her apartment. Dashing up the steps, she threw open the door to the sight of Dexion frying meats over her stove.

  “Ah, I was wondering where you were. Are you hungry?” he said.

  Kata slammed the door and locked it. She leaned against it, breathing hard. The light, the warmth, Dexion’s protective bulk—the factory seemed nothing but a surreal dream.

  “Are you all right?” the minotaur said.

  “I’m not sure,” said Kata. Pain ran up her ribs like flames licking up a dry wall.

  * * *

  The killer knew where Kata lived. It was a terrifying idea, that anyone could be a shapeshifting murderer: a washerwoman on the street, a close associate, Dexion himself. How could she trust anyone? She would have to rely on her instinct and the fact that she had been able to see through the shapeshifter’s disguise before. One’s true self, it seemed, was hard to hide after all.

  In the morning Dexion insisted on accompanying her to the Opera. Even more beggars held out wooden bowls on Via Persine. The city had begun to starve. The poorest had become desperate. Soon the rest of them would be too.

  “Don’t mother me, minotaur,” she said.

  “You’re not used to it, are you?” He waved her good-bye and continued to the Arena.

  Rikard rushed toward her across the entry hall, pushing others out of his way. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said breathlessly. “Ejan’s up at the Bolt. Prefect Alfadi caught the thieves who were stealing from Marin’s treasury. Apparently, they faced the Criminal Tribunal yesterday and they’re already on their way to the Standing Stones.”

  “No!” Kata frowned.

  “Come on.” Rikard was already heading for the square.

  They raced through the Lavere on foot, up the Thousand Stairs, across the tiny plazas, and past the gorgeous little boutiques and tiny eateries, many of which were now boarded up.

  Everything was happening too fast for Kata’s liking. The smugglers caught, tried before the tribunal, and now headed to their deaths, all so quickly? She sensed some vague connection between these events and her fight in the factory the night before. Something was wrong.

  A crowd surrounded the Standing Stones. It seemed to Kata that most of them had come up from the Lavere and the slums, a collection of low-on-their-luck ruffians, some missing teeth, their clothes little more than black rags. They leaned over the palisade that protected the pathway to the Stones, grinning and calling to one another. Hundreds more gathered on the amphitheater steps.

  The Bolt stood on a wooden platform in the center of the Stones. Black-suited guards were positioned on each of the platform’s corners, pikes in hand. More guards roved officiously through the space that curled around the area, protecting it. To the side of the platform, two more of the killing machines stood half finished.

  At the top of the steps, Kata spied Ejan and Alfadi looking on together. Alfadi pointed toward the monoliths and explained something to the vigilant leader.

  Kata and Rikard forced their way toward him, through the masses of pressing bodies, sweaty and stinking and hot. About halfway there, Kata made out Dumas’s bloodhound face, surrounded by Numerian guards, fine dark-skinned men who had noble bearing despite their subjugation. She noted Dumas’s baggy clothes, one size too large, as if he were hiding something. Before the overthrow of the Houses, he was said to have spent much of his time across the sea. Kata wondered what else he had acquired there besides slaves. Like most of the Collegia, he swam beneath the surface of things, a silent invisible creature. He was unmarried, she knew that much for sure, preferring—or so the rumours went—the louche attraction of the prostitutes of the Lavere, many of whom he probably owned. What kind of man was happy to own others? she wondered. A man didn’t succeed under the regime of the Houses, as he had, without all sorts of transgressions.

  As she passed by, Dumas waved, and smiled malevolently. Did he know she and Rikard suspected him?

&nbs
p; Ejan caught sight of them as they approached. “I’m so glad you’ve arrived.”

  At that moment a cheer went up among the crowd. A prison cart rattled along the street, ratty-looking prisoners gripping the bars and staring balefully over the crowd. A woman in a pretty but stained dress reached out to the throng, but no one responded.

  Among the dozen prisoners sat three thaumaturgists, bound and gagged on the floor. One of them was Detis, the thaumaturgist who had rowed Kata and Rikard through the Marin Complex on their first visit. The greenish tinge of his skin seemed darker now, and his haggard look seemed desperate. His suit was torn near the neck, revealing a glimpse of the tattoo of two hands clasping—the sign, she figured, of the mysterious organization called the Brotherhood of the Hand.

  Kata’s mind raced: Could Detis have been the one who wrote the letter to Armand? It was possible, certainly. As a thaumaturgist, he might have known Armand at Technis. Yet why had Aceline decided to meet up with two of the Brotherhood at the Baths? Kata desperately wanted to slow events down. Instead, they were rushing past like a thousand deadly arrows.

  Since she had last seen Alfadi at the Marin Palace, he had allowed his hair to grow around the sides of his formerly shaved head. White as his pupils, the hair gave him a venerable air that muted his radiating power. He was changing, too. This city had a way of wearing everyone down.

  Alfadi touched her on the arm. “We caught them returning to Marin in a gondola. There was barely a need for a trial.”

  “Then you know they were passing money to the Collegia and Dumas,” said Kata.

  “We’re keeping an eye on Dumas right now,” said Ejan. “At the moment it looks like it’s simple corruption. You know the Collegia—always after financial gain. What do you expect from merchants and petty tradesmen?”

  The guards dragged the first man—head bowed, hair lank and greasy—to the killing machine.

  A black-suited guard gestured dramatically to the man. “Subofficiate Lakartis, you have been caught conspiring against the citizenry, committing sabotage, and resisting the new order. Before you face the ultimate judgment of the people, what have you to say?”

  The man looked up, his grief-stricken face taking on a vicious aspect. He spat at the masses, who hooted and catcalled back at him, waving fists in the air.

  The guards pulled the man back into the contraption, locked him into the exoskeleton. The structure held him tight, a deadly wooden embrace.

  “I want to speak with Detis and the other thaumaturgists,” said Kata. “Before they’re put to death.”

  “The trial was yesterday,” said Ejan. “They’ve confessed.”

  That fact apparently closed the door on the affair. Dumas was under surveillance, and the Collegia would have to prostrate itself before the Insurgent Assembly. Yet something still felt wrong to Kata. She looked around for support. “Rikard?”

  Rikard shrugged, pressed his lips together. “Justice must be served. We’re too late for the interrogation.”

  “But we weren’t even told they were caught!” Kata hated the pleading tone of her voice.

  “It’s not all about us, Kata,” said Rikard. “Everyone’s doing the best they can.”

  Alfadi touched her arm again. When he spoke, his voice was powerful, resonant, and cultured. She noticed a slight accent of the Teeming Cities for the first time. “That was my fault. I’m sorry. They confessed so quickly once we caught them, I didn’t think it important to involve you. Then they went off to the Criminal Tribunal, where Georges made quick work of them. I thought it was case closed, clear enough. Don’t blame Ejan—if anyone, blame me.”

  But she did blame Ejan, because this turn of affairs suited him perfectly. He was getting everything he wanted, while the moderates were irrelevant, useless.

  Below, the guard stepped closer to the crowd and looked up at the onlookers on the theater stairs. “Subofficiate Lakartis, I hereby pronounce your unworthy life at its end.”

  In one horrible instant the cylindrical beam burst through the man’s chest. Blood and shattered remnants of organs and bone sprayed out over the ground in front of the platform. The subofficiate’s eyes rolled around in his head, as if he were trying to make sense of events. Then, as he lost strength, his head reeled to one side. Several men lifted up their children so they could see better.

  Kata closed her eyes for a moment. The cheers and cries of the crowd washed over her. She turned to Ejan. “This is wrong. If anyone should be up there, Dumas should.”

  “Do you have actual evidence against Dumas? The thaumaturgists weren’t handing the money to the Collegia’s leadership, but to others lower down. It was simple theft, from what we know. Anyway, the Collegia follow whoever is strongest. And we’re about to crush the final resistance. They’ll be on our side when we move on the southern villas shortly.”

  “More meat for your Bolt?” said Kata.

  The body of Lakartis was dragged from the platform and thrown into a second cart, already filled with broken bodies. Then they dragged Detis toward the platform, still gagged so he couldn’t invoke any conjurations. He struggled and moaned, but on they carried him. As they fastened him into the machine, he looked up at Kata. His eyes widened, and she sensed he was trying to say something: Was he hoping for her to save him, or was it something else? A dark patch of discoloration pulsed beneath one cheek, as if the effects of thaumaturgy were intensifying in his dire situation.

  The guard spoke again. “Thaumaturgist Detis Adirno, you have been condemned for stealing from the Marin treasury. House assets now belong to the citizens. Let all who watch know this: we will not tolerate saboteurs or parasites. Your sentence?”

  “Death!” called the crowd.

  “Death!” said the guard.

  The Bolt fired. An explosion of blood and guts. Kata watched as the man’s eyes, still fixed on her, lost their light. His strength gave way, and his head fell to one side.

  Unable to watch, Kata pushed through the leering crowd. Again Dumas smiled at her from his place on the steps. There he stood, happy and free. What kind of justice was this? She couldn’t help the thought it prompted: Ejan and Dumas must be working together. She was surrounded by men in power. There was a cover-up happening here and there was nothing she could do.

  Something snapped in Kata. She was a woman of action who had held herself back. Enough is enough, she thought.

  Rikard took her by the arm. “Kata, come on.”

  “Your leader must be stopped,” Kata said.

  “It’s the will of the people. The Authority was elected. They’re simply representing what the citizens want. What they need.”

  Kata turned to Rikard. “The will of the people is something shaped by people like you.”

  “And by you, also.” Signs of strain were visible on Rikard’s youthful face.

  Kata crossed her arms, glared at him. “Yes, and by me, also.”

  Rikard frowned; he seemed to sense some change in Kata. “What do you mean, Kata?”

  “We’re not going to work together anymore, Rikard. I won’t work with any vigilant.”

  Rikard looked stunned, as if she had shoved him physically away. “But the search for Aceline’s killer?”

  “We’ll never find them because of you vigilants. You’ve forced me to choose between that search and continuing Aceline’s work. You disgust me, Rikard.”

  “We’re friends.”

  “We weren’t ever friends.” Kata pushed through the crowd. She had spent enough time in the shadows. It was time for her to take a stand, whatever the personal consequences. Would Rikard tell Ejan about her past? Would it destroy her, or bring the moderates into disrepute? She would have to take the risk.

  When she strode into the Opera, Kata’s eyes were fixed forward. She found Olivier and a group of moderate militants working in the Dawn’s editorial offices.

  Olivier looked up. “Kata, we’re almost finished typeset— What is it?”

  Kata examined the little group for a mo
ment as they stared, wide-eyed, at her. “We must call a meeting for tomorrow and gather as many supporters as we can. If we don’t act soon, the city will be in Ejan’s hands. We must also reorganize our guards. We need a professional force to defend us.”

  “What do you mean, defend us?” said Olivier.

  Kata widened her stance, as if she were ready for any kind of conflict. “We have to be prepared for the moment the vigilants declare us to be enemies. Soon they’ll make no distinction between those who oppose them and those who oppose seditionism.”

  “If we build up our own guard force, that will risk civil war,” said Olivier. “You know Ejan. He will see us as a threat.”

  “No, this is what will prevent a civil war,” said Kata. “Ejan only understands force.”

  “Who will train these guards?” said Olivier.

  “I will,” said Kata, but she knew she couldn’t do it alone. She needed the help of an expert. She needed her mentor Sarrat.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Once again Kata found herself standing in the alleyway near Via Gracchia and looking at the delicate stone garden, its hardy desert flowers unconcerned about the world. Kata stared at the apartment and calmed herself. She strode forward and slid open the door. Sarrat was not in the room, but she heard a voice call out, “Who’s that?”

  Kata walked to the center of the room, sat down, and waited. This time she would be calm when he entered.

  Kata was pleased to see the mild surprise on Sarrat’s face. “I thought you were never coming back.”

  “I never said that,” said Kata.

  “No, but I know you,” said Sarrat. “Explosive emotions all bottled up. When they blow—”

  “Not anymore,” said Kata.

  Sarrat sat down in front of her. Not a muscle moved on his smooth face. He breathed calmly through his crooked nose. His heavy-lidded eyes drooped so that he looked like he was half asleep.