Yemelyan looked interested. “What if we get caught?”
“We won’t.” They both knew, as their excited simulacra did, it was worth the small risk. They walked around the ground, waving away moths. The bowl was infested with the critters. Out of sight of the road, the wall ran next to some earthworks. “Reckon we could get up there,” Guyen said.
“Easy,” Yemelyan agreed, and a minute later they dropped into a gap between two blocks of banked seating. The hexium was two-thirds full, half the town at a guess. A small contingent of fans in green occupied one corner.
The rules of Flags were few and simple. Two teams, twelve horsemen and six footmen in each, battling it out on a hexagonal pitch. One of the footmen, the bannerman, carried the flag. Steal it, and you won a point. More like a war than a sport, Flags was decadently violent, the players’ heavy armour essential protection from lances, swords and maces, although there were probably as many injuries from trampling. While the mounted knights harried the opposition, the footmen, or shell team, protected the bannerman with complex shield formations, creating a metal barrier around him while the bannerman’s own shield covered his head. The resulting formations looked like bizarre, bronze turtle shells scurrying about the sandy bowl.
The febrile atmosphere was infectious, but they’d been enjoying the spectacle for only a few minutes when an inky blue raindrop landed on the back of Guyen’s hand. He wiped it away. Feeling an energy in the air, he looked up. The sky was considerably darker than it had been a moment ago. A red flicker lit up clouds on the horizon.
A knight clattered into the barrier in front of them as another drop fell, distant thunder rumbling. Then the inky rain began to pit-patter, and the noise around the bowl changed from whoops and cheers to worried murmurs. A few thousand spectators got to their feet. Guyen held out his hand. The blue-black liquid turned clear as it hit his skin. He tasted the residue. Just water.
“Strange weather, brother,” he murmured.
Yemelyan glanced nervously around. “Everyone’s leaving.”
“You think they know something we don’t?”
A gong sounded, and the match came to an abrupt end, the players heading for the cover of the outbuildings. The crowds jostled for the exits, the hexium emptying fast. The sky flashed red again, a frisson of energy thickening the air. The clamour rose up, whistling, distracting. Guyen breathed, holding Toulesh in tight. Something felt wrong. The rain intensified, running down the sides of the embankment like an ink pot tipped from the sky, pooling clear on the ground. What was happening?
“We should definitely go,” Guyen said, urgently surveying their surrounds. How did they get out? The wall they’d dropped down was too sheer to climb from this side, the embankment likewise. The wooden barrier circling the pitch was their only escape route.
“Come on!” He vaulted it. Yemelyan followed, joining him in the deserted arena.
A side gate opened, and a lean man with a well-kempt beard appeared, a blanket over his head. He shouted, “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”
They sprinted for the opening, rushing him. He stepped aside, cursing as they darted through.
Some ran, others walked. Those without tricornes or bonnets covered their heads with shawls and bags. The cliffs provided no shelter up here. Muttered concerns were rampant. These storms had begun six months ago. They had people worried. A man had even died several weeks back, hit by a cartwheel-sized chunk of black ice falling from the heavens. There was no sign of anything like that today, but they were soon drenched, if not stained by the inky downpour.
They’d been tramping along in the strange rain for several minutes, a quarter way back to town, when a violent arc of red lightning flashed above, ripping a gash in the sky to both edges of the horizon. Toulesh exploded out, fizzing around like a madman. Growling thunder boomed. The whistling clamour began to whine. Rikesh joined Toulesh in his berserk behaviour, both simulacra flickering in and out of being, remaking themselves. They’d done similar during the storm aboard the cursed ship. Something pinged Guyen’s hat. And again. Suddenly, black hail fell like peppercorns. A few seconds later, it fell like the gods rained volleys of musket fire down upon them. The inky pellets piled on the ground, bursts of red lightning projecting jumping negative-pink shadows on the road. A pumpkin-sized chunk of black ice shattered on a rock a few feet away, strafing them with inky shrapnel. Panic filled the air, the crowds jostling to get away.
“Shit!” Guyen swore.
“Quick, that tree,” Yemelyan shrieked, pointing to a single pine up the slope. They ran for it, squashing in beneath its branches with a dozen locals. Less fortunate Flags fans rushed past, eying the haven jealously.
“It ain’t natural,” one of the sheltering men said to his companion.
“Brulus says it’s a curse from the gods,” the other man said. “For our sins.” He drew the symbol of Holy Fire in the air, a ritual blessing sacred to the followers of Issa. The twins remained silent. They’d likely be ejected into the onslaught if the locals picked up on their accents.
For several minutes, chunks of black ice peppered the ground, Toulesh and Rikesh still losing coherence with every lightning flash. Then the hail reverted to inky-black rain, the precipitation ceasing altogether a moment later. The sky cleared as quickly as it had darkened. They stepped out from beneath the tree, the relief palpable, and continued on their way.
The simulacra walked ahead, darting in and out between groups of hurrying townsfolk, still unnerved by the storm.
“Did you see Rikesh during the lightning?” Guyen said.
“What about him?”
“You didn’t notice?”
“No, what?”
“He was fading in and out.”
Yemelyan shrugged. “Well, that’s what they do.”
“No, not like that. They were flickering, like under attack from the storm—disintegrating and reforming.”
Yemelyan screwed up his eyes, staring at his clone. “Maybe you imagined it.”
“And that would be better how?”
He grunted. “Never heard of no storm affecting your simulacrum. How could it?”
“I don’t know, but it affected me too. Same as on the ship.”
“What do you mean?”
“I felt an energy.”
“What energy?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s my curse at work again.”
“Storm cursed too now, are you?” He laughed. “I wouldn’t worry. As long as we’re not caught out in them, we’ll be fine.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“I always am.”
They ambled along, discussing nothing in particular, reaching the Impossible Bridge a quarter of an hour later. Usually, lamp lighters would have been over it by now, but the way was almost dark in the fading light. Still, it wasn’t so treacherous that they couldn’t see the road.
“This is a strange country,” Guyen said, glancing down at the estuary churning away beneath them. Something seemed different about it today, but he couldn’t place what.
“Strange doesn’t come close, brother,” Yemelyan agreed.
Now was as good a time as any to tell him. “I’ve no intention of staying at the foundry, you know.”
Yemelyan glanced across. “You haven’t?”
“No. I won’t be a slave for these bastards. I’m wasting my life away.”
“But they’ll arrest you.”
“Not if I’m out of the country.”
They continued in silence. Yemelyan broke it. “Where will you go?”
“Who knows? Damor, perhaps.”
Yemelyan muttered a curse. “I heard if you abscond from your Assignment, your family becomes liable.”
“What?”
“If you go, it’ll be Mother, Father and me who pay.”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
Yemelyan’s face was as bitter as his tone. “If we’re lucky, we’ll be deported. But they’ve hung people for less.”
“I hope so, brother.”
They stepped onto the West Cliff and headed up the road into the immigrants’ quarter, turning up the lane to the cottage. The atmosphere seemed awry, neighbours’ shutters closed even though it wasn’t dark yet. They pushed through the backdoor. Everyone sat at the parlour table, faces sombre, apart from Nazhedra who scrubbed furiously at the stove.
“Ho,” Guyen said, throwing his hat on the table. “What’s up? Another argument?”
No one spoke. Mother let out a whimper. Evgeniya’s eyes were red. Something was wrong.
“What is it?” Dread took hold.
“Sit down,” Mother said.
“I don’t want to sit down. What’s the matter? Where’s Father?”
“I have some terrible news, boys.”
“What are you talking about?” Yemelyan demanded.
She turned to him. “There was a collapse, up at the dam. I’m afraid—your father and Zial…” She broke off, emitting a frightful whine, the same sound she’d made when Kiani had not come home that day. “They’re dead.”
The world stopped spinning. A million happy memories flashed—the time Father had shown him how to mend a net, the knife he’d presented him on his birthday, which he’d lost and felt guilty over, the ribbing and joking, how he’d defended him when he’d stolen that bread from an overseer…
Mother slumped in the chair. Guyen took her in his arms, her grief, his grief. She spoke between sobs, explaining how Knaxti had called in to tell them the news, how the dam had collapsed that afternoon. “They were laying the final stones when something gave way,” she cried. “The whole crew was buried under the earthworks.”
The girls looked on, tears streaming down their faces, their father lost too. Yemelyan stormed outside. Nazhedra wilted on the floor, back against the stove, shoulders heaving.
“He’s not dead. Pa’s not dead,” Zial’s youngest repeated. Why wouldn’t she stop? She’d been muttering the same words over and over again.
Evgeniya screamed at her. “He is dead. He’s never coming back. Don’t you get it?”
She burst into tears.
Toulesh looked on, eyes vacant. Guyen pushed him away. He didn’t want the simulacrum anywhere near him right now.
8
Sky Lanterns
The next week was hell. With no way to extricate the bodies from under the tons of rock and earth, the town council declared the dam a gravesite, setting a memorial service for the following Aylesday. Guyen tried to be strong for the others, but keeping his emotions in check was a losing battle. The girls cried constantly. Mother made do with random sobbing throughout the night. He took to sleeping on cushions on the parlour floor.
On top of the emotional strain, sat the practicalities of rent to worry about. He and Yemelyan couldn’t be expected to support two families on the wages they might bring in. Knaxti visited again, embarrassedly admitting there would be no compensation for the accident, the company putting it down to an act of the gods. It looked like the trunk and books would have to be sold after all, if they were to eat.
Most of all, Guyen was just sad. Really sad.
There was no escaping their Assignment. Although the foundry master did at least pay them out of pity, the work was relentless, their co-workers as sympathetic as judges. With construction on the dam halted, the foundrymen lapped up rumours Krellens would come sniffing after their jobs, even though, as foreigners, Krellens couldn’t be assigned. Yemelyan didn’t get it as bad, but the Sendalis made everything just that bit more difficult for Guyen, stumbling into his moulds, knocking over buckets, one old man even burning him with a hot iron. He kept Toulesh close, folded in, invisible. It was easier to concentrate and thus stay alive in the damn place like that.
All the while, foreboding festered like rotten eggs.
The antagonism towards Krellens persisted at every level, even outside the foundry. On Pixenday, he visited the sole bookshop in town, only to be accused of stealing the books he was selling. He’d not been able to bring himself to part with The Book of Talents, despite the man’s interest, and that had probably pissed him off. He’d called him boy, and told him he was an idiot, then handed over just five silvers. The four books were worth at least twenty.
Of course, plenty more derogatory names abounded for him and his countrymen, words that flowed off the tongues of men like the blond cadet, Rossi. The scrag made another visit to the foundry on Wizenday to pick up more weapons, his manner as pompous as the last time they’d met. He seemed to have forgotten about the incident with his snapped reins. Guyen hadn’t. It was his curse at work.
Rossi watched while he loaded the weapons on the cart. He trotted up once a few remained. “You know anyone up at that dam collapse, Cloves?”
Guyen suppressed a growl. “Don’t you know cloves is an offensive term?”
“Not to me it isn’t.” He picked up a sabre, tossing it in next to the others. “Did you know the carp disappeared once they started building that dam? My father thought it was worth it to get water for the vineyards, but I’d rather have the fish.” So this moron was a fellow angler? How depressing. “Still,” he continued, “the water level’s good now, so the fish will be back. Those incompetent halfbounds did us a favour.”
“Your father must be proud,” Guyen muttered darkly, “to have produced a son like you to hand his withered vines on to.”
Rossi sneered. “Screw the old bastard. I’ll sell every acre when he kicks the bucket. I’ll be moving to the capital soon enough anyway. The less time I spend in this infested town, the better.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He sniffed the air. “Stinks of… cloves.” He winked.
Guyen picked up a sabre. The blade glinted unnaturally in the afternoon light, wicked with temptation. Toulesh stood by, glaring at the youth, ready to fight. Guyen summoned him. That was better, calmer. He couldn’t afford to lose control. In the Feyrlands that was too close to the maddenings.
“That’s the last one,” Rossi said, nodding at the sword. “Best stick it in, unless you’re planning on coming at me with it?”
“I wouldn’t want to embarrass you.” Guyen threw it on the pile, securing the load. The militia captain appeared with Scaaco, who’d been tasked with driving. They mounted the horses and Scaaco climbed up onto the cart.
Rossi clicked his mare into a trot. “Do have a horrible day, won’t you,” he called behind him. Scaaco shook the reins and the cart trundled off down the dirt road after the militiamen.
Guyen did nothing.
By Bannocksday night, shock and grief had become sadness and anger amongst the Krellens as they gathered on the banks of the Tal. The collapsed earthworks stretched out before them, fingers of rubble beneath the water drawing chaotic moonlit ripples on the surface. Guyen wrapped Zial’s fur tightly around him. Nazhedra had insisted he wear it, and he was glad she had, the air was cold.
Once the crowd had quietened, a woman sang a mournful, unaccompanied acapella, then another younger woman read out the names of the eighteen dead, before a priest offered blessings. The children scattered rose petals onto the water, speaking parting words to their loved ones. Zial’s youngest offered a petal. Guyen took it with a sympathetic smile, throwing it silently in after the others. He had no parting words for Father, not tonight, only anger and resentment at the big man’s choices.
Yemelyan loomed from the darkness, a paper lantern in hand. “Let’s borrow the light,” he said.
Guyen held out his torch. Yemelyan lit a candle from it, placing it in the sky lantern, other families doing the same. The priest spoke more words of blessing, and the mourners offered their lanterns up to the sky. They lift
ed off into the darkness, disappearing slowly, getting lost amongst the stars, as Guyen lost himself in thought. As far as family went, it was just the three of them now. And it was up to him to look after them. It had always been him.
Once the sky lanterns were little more than specks, the crowd became real again. A familiar man stood nearby, one half of his face lit by his lamp. It took a few seconds to recall him—the Sendali groundsman from the hexium, the one whose gate they’d rushed in their hurry to flee the black rain. What was he doing here? He caught Guyen staring and strolled over. Would he accost them for breaking in?
“Hallo Livia,” he said.
Mother spun round. “Dalrik?”
He bowed. “One and the same. My deepest condolences, dear lady.” His suit looked expensive for a mere groundsman. He nodded over. “Are these your sons?”
Toulesh stalked up for a closer look.
“Yes,” Mother mumbled, suddenly flustered. “These are the twins—Guyen, Yemelyan.”
“We have met, actually.” He cocked an eyebrow.
“You have?” Mother looked between them.
“Yes, Flags fans, it seems.”
Guyen grunted. “Not really.”
Dalrik offered an understanding smile. He gestured across the collapsed dam. “I’m sorry I couldn’t have done something.”
Mother’s tone brightened. “I didn’t know you lived around here?”
“Sometimes. I travel a lot.”
Guyen fixed him with a dark stare. How did he and Mother know each other? Who was this man?
“You must come back to the house,” Mother said. “Raise a toast to Olvar.”
“If it wouldn’t be an intrusion?” He looked over. Guyen scowled back, unseen in the darkness.
“Of course not,” Mother said. “Olvar would have approved.”
“I’m not sure about that.”
“Nonsense, he always liked you.”
“And I liked him. Such a shame.” Mother held out her arm. Dalrik took it.
They processed back to town, Mother deep in conversation with Dalrik all the way. It was infuriating.
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