by Tim Clare
Delphine closed her eyes. ‘And lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world.’
A heartbeat. She had meant to go then. She puffed and tensed. Why was it so hard, letting go? 3 . . . 2 . . .
She drove her heels into the floor, pitching herself backwards. She slapped into something hot and wet and thick.
Godstuff closed over her as she sank. The texture was like syrup. It surrounded her slowly, flowing up into her nostrils, pushing into her ear cavities, seeping between her lips and filling her mouth. Her skin tingled. Godstuff oozed over her tongue. It tasted of old lightning.
A high staticky crackling. Her bathrobe was breaking apart, fizzing away to nothing. Gravity released her. She hung, suspended in the endless medium. She had no sense of up or down. Was she supposed to be kicking, swimming towards a surface? Resisting somehow? Had she misread the manual? What about breathing?
Somewhere at the back of her mind, it occurred to her she was dying.
She opened her eyes to discover she no longer had any. A faint prickling pressure met the inside of her head. Then even that sensation dissolved, and she was fading
CHAPTER 4
THE GOOD DOCTOR
(Two days before the inauguration)
‘Someone is trying to kill me.’
Dr Noroc timed his revelation to coincide with an outrageous hoof-to-groin foul down on the Bataille court; half the arena exploded in roars of disapproval, the other side hurling back whistles, jeers. The referee blew his horn. He called the offending player, a lithe ginger-brown harka with a flat head and oily eyes, down to the edge of the pool. The referee said something and the player cocked a torn ear towards him, cupping a palm round it. The referee waved his blue chevron flag: a dismissal. The crowd leapt to their feet.
The festival day match was always raucous. Amidst yells and whoops and shoves, Hagar watched Dr Noroc. He had shrunk back inside his headscarf, brown cotton rucking against his hunched shoulders. His clothes were hanging off him, his eyes sunken, his hollow cheeks tinged with a dolorous grey-yellow pallor. She felt an unexpected jag of pity. He was a ghost of the man she had known back at the Mill. He looked like a skeleton.
‘Perhaps you should kill them first,’ she said. She had only agreed to meet him because she was afraid he might do something foolish. He was paranoid, gripped by guilt – but what if someone knew his secret? She bit into a plum sweetheart. An unpalatable thought.
As the spectators settled back onto their long plank benches, she gazed down towards the court. The two teams gathered on their home lines at opposite ends of the lozenge-shaped pool. The brick clique against the flesh shambles clique – builders versus butchers. Tan bricks shone in the morning sun while sashboys adjusted the straps binding wrists behind backs. Players spat and muttered, waiting for the restart.
‘I’m serious,’ said Dr Noroc. His triangular chin was stippled with patchy silver whiskers. He kept massaging the scar crease beneath his glass eye.
The referee’s horn blasted – a deep, martial reverberation. The crowd began stamping in time, waving their leaf umbrellas. Hagar noticed her heart rate rising. Players hopped from the poolside onto the low wooden posts by their home lines. The posts were spaced an average of four feet apart and grew gradually taller as they approached the centre of the pool. The middle posts – the ones where all the action happened – stood some ten feet above the water. The arena rang with the haphazard tattoo of cloven hooves on hickory.
‘So am I.’
The brick clique team, in yellow sashes, broke down the left flank. The foul had reduced them to four players. Their guard, an immense snorting brute that Hagar had heard fans call L’Île Noire, shuffled from hoof to hoof on the post beside their home line.
Hagar felt a tug at her cloak and slapped Dr Noroc’s hand away. Noroc stroked his sallow cheek, glaring reproachfully.
‘So you’re just going to turn your back on me, is that it?’
She felt her neck tightening with irritation. ‘As a servant of the perpetuum I have a duty to protect all Avalonia’s citizens.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Whatever they may have done.’
Dr Noroc kept his fists bunched in his lap. He spoke at a murmur.
‘Somebody . . . I don’t know who . . . some maniac . . . has got me confused with another doctor.’ He was shaking so hard his wire-framed spectacles slipped down his nose. ‘A doctor who . . . they believe . . . made certain sacrifices for the good of his country, many years ago.’
‘Sacrifices, you say?’
‘But that’s not how they see it.’
Hagar tongued a plug of plum-flesh out of the hole in her upper gum. Beneath her show of nonchalance, she was deeply troubled. Few knew what had gone on at the Mill. He was plainly delusional. Wasn’t he?
‘Do you know how they arrived at this . . . theory?’
‘Of course not! There’s no way they could . . . they have a poisoned mind.’
The five-strong purple-sashed flesh shambles team were loitering around their end of the court, holding back, running down the clock. Brick supporters began to boo, joined by a few of the opposing fans.
‘Can you describe this person?’
Dr Noroc’s head shook within his scarf. ‘I’ve not met them. But they’ve sent notes. Threats.’
At some clandestine signal the flesh shambles team surged forward, vying for the higher ground. The spectators began drumming their feet, a great anticipatory rumble.
‘I understand your concern, friend doctor,’ said Hagar, putting on a show of civility in case any of their neighbours were listening in. ‘The run-up to this weekend’s inauguration has seen a lot of bluster. Nasty letters, rocks thrown through windows. Not honourable, not pleasant. But a long way from murder.’
A roar shook the arena. Hagar glanced down in time to see a yellow-sashed brick player land a front kick square in an opposing harka’s breastbone, the contact so perfect Hagar dug her nails into her thigh. If anything, the touch was a little too square – better to strike the collarbone or shoulder and knock them askew, leaving them open for the second, decisive blow. The kicked flesh shambles player leapt backwards and landed cleanly on the post behind, where he grimaced and coughed. She felt her blood quickening, touched a finger to her ribs.
‘But how could they . . . Why would they think I had . . . been involved in such . . . pursuits?’
‘You’re reading into innuendo.’ Purple sashes spread into an enveloping line as the flesh shambles players advanced. ‘Exactly as your mystery correspondent intended. I expect identical letters have appeared all over the city, filled with vague allusions to dark pasts. Pricking consciences. They want to silence anyone associated with a rival clique. Some faction wishes to suppress the vote so their chosen candidate can be made Prefect.’ She blew through pursed lips. ‘I’ve seen these tactics a thousand times. They play on the vanity that one’s sin is unique.’
Dr Noroc grunted and rocked forward. Hagar turned, thinking for a wild moment he had been stabbed, but he straightened up, shaking his head.
‘No, no, no.’ His voice dropped to a murmur. ‘They call me by a . . . specific name. Not the name hanging outside my practice. Not the name I came to this city with. The name of another man.’ He stole a glance at her, his good eye twitching. ‘A man long dead.’ He pushed his spectacles back up the bridge of his nose with a trembling finger.
He meant, of course, his own name, ‘Noroc’. She had arranged a whole new identity for him when he arrived in Fat Maw, forged papers, a pleasant villa in the high town. He had promised to slip into his dotage in quiet obscurity.
‘A name alone means little.’
‘Not just a name! The threats are full of . . . details. Things that no one could . . .’ He massaged his brow. ‘Accusations so definite that a stranger might mistake them for truth.’
Hagar crunched down her final chunk of sweetheart, warm honey bleeding over her tongue. Poor Noroc had learned nothing from his suffering. He clung to life as a m
iser clings to pennies.
‘In my experience,’ she said, the last word making spit well in her mouth, ‘assassins don’t announce they’re going to kill you.’ The brick’s three yellow sashes were retreating, the five purple sashes of the flesh shambles side exploiting the higher ground to drive them towards the side of the arena. She felt a pang, just above the heart. ‘Not the successful ones.’
‘Well, this one has.’
‘Then their purpose is not death but intimidation. You are intimidated. Their job is done. Enjoy the rest of the match.’ She rose to leave.
A cornered yellow player parried his opponent’s strike with a hook kick, twisting the other harka to one side then dropping into a sweep and knocking his ankle from under him. The ankle whipped up in a wide arc and – for an instant – the player seemed weightless, then the equilibrium broke and she went sprawling backwards into the pool. The crowd sprang from their benches.
Dr Noroc stood and grabbed Hagar’s wrist. ‘I want passage on a ship to Thelusia. I want a new name and a house and a job.’
Hagar glanced down at the rough sinewy fingers digging in. ‘Let go.’
His grip tightened.
‘You have to help me.’ His breath was damp and rancid, heavy with a lingering sour tang. ‘The last note said they’re going to kill me tonight. During the festival.’
All around them, spectators were dancing, yelling, pounding hooves on rough orange-brown boards. No one intervened. Even if they noticed, Noroc would look like a tired father reprimanding his eccentrically dressed child.
She stepped towards him so his wrist bent back on itself. His squeal merged with the shrieks of the crowd and she twisted easily out of his grasp, dealing him a backhanded slap across the forehead.
He dropped back into his seat, stunned. A little red crescent marked his pasty brow. Hagar adjusted her signet ring, rubbing her thumb over the engraved carnelian crest.
‘I suggest you lock your door.’ She sniffed, wrinkled her nose. She recognised the heady floral scent – a perfume ward. ‘Have you been visiting a shaman?’
He looked up at her, yellow teeth clenched. ‘Who else can I turn to? You won’t help. Even God has forsaken me.’
‘Oh, doctor. You misunderstand. Perhaps your death is God’s will.’
Around them, sweaty jostling bodies sang with ardour. A brick player had broken through the flesh shambles’ siege and was bounding towards their undefended home line. He sprang from post to post in a series of bravura, mocking bounds.
‘If you can’t protect me, I’ll find someone who can.’ Noroc prodded his glasses back up his nose, pinned them there with a forefinger. ‘I know things. I’ll go to Lesang! She’ll protect me. The palace isn’t the only authority in Fat Maw.’
Hagar considered throttling him. She saw the hot, quick motion of it, the wire round the throat, his struggling lost in the tumult of the crowd. His bloodshot eye was full of rueful, petty terror. It would be an act of mercy, for both of them.
But his threat had no teeth. She had terminated the Mill decades ago. The last trace of Noroc’s research was wrapped around her wrist – and only she knew that. He had nothing to offer her enemies except wild stories.
And she did not want to hurt him, not really. If she killed him while he remained in a state of ignorance and fear, he would only be reborn in a new body, to repeat the whole ugly cycle again. To escape rebirth, you had to go willingly. Without malice or fear. How rare it must be to achieve such a thing. There was always unfinished business.
She curled her fingers round the cuff of her jacket. ‘The assassin might be working for Doyenne Lesang. Did you consider that?’
Noroc blanched. ‘But what should I do? The letter said once I’m gone, they’ll kill the Grand-Duc.’
She laughed. She could not help it.
‘Many have tried.’ Her mirth frothed away to a cold hate. ‘I think you are dealing with a fantasist.’
Noroc held out his hand. It hung there, filthy, quivering. With a start, she recognised the gesture – he was begging.
She took a step back. Noroc closed his fingers on nothing. Around them citizens exploded from their benches, cheering, bellowing, shaking fists at the teal sky. Their bodies created a hollow, a strange, shaded grove in which Noroc dropped to his knees and bowed before Hagar – a last, ersatz display of submission.
Poor wretch. Power was all he understood. She turned and left him there, greasy silver hairs protruding from beneath his crumpled headscarf. His terror was genuine, of course. But he would never comprehend the real tragedy – that submission was not enough.
What saved you was remorse.
As Hagar walked down the quayside, she noticed a harka keeping pace with her in a sailor’s rainskin. His heavy brown poncho was an odd choice for a clement day, the hood fastening over his horns, half-obscuring his face. Occasionally he paused to regard the bay. A small steamer had docked beside him and blue-capped hawser clique orderlies were busy humping packing cases down the gangplank. Perhaps his aimless, shuffling demeanour was genuine. Perhaps he was watching her for one of the cliques. She pretended not to see him, sneaking glances when she dared.
A biting salty stink wafted from the great wooden doors of the fish market. Hagar passed a fisherwoman sitting crosslegged on the boardwalk, gutting a bottle-green decapus. She made a slit across its scalp, thrust a hand into the gap between the creature’s eyes and turned it inside out like a velvet purse. Clinging emerald skin peeled away, birthing a slick white ghost. She began sawing through the stretchy translucent cartilage, dropping sweetbreads into a bucket – the ink sac, the pancreas, the dual underhearts.
The encounter with Noroc had left Hagar unsettled. So much rested on the next two days. The angel had seen only a possible future. Not an inevitable one.
‘Miss Ingery.’
A deep voice brought her up short. The sweating red bulk that was Sheriff Kenner stood glowering on the boardwalk, the gold threads in his sash scintillating with the motion of his chest. He placed one hand on his dagger; with the other, he wiped perspiration from his muzzle.
‘I’m very busy,’ said Hagar. She continued to walk.
‘Then let’s not waste time,’ said Kenner. He fell into step alongside her. ‘Leave the city.’
‘I’ve work to do.’
‘I can’t guarantee your safety.’ Beneath his white smock, the humps of muscle supporting his neck shifted restlessly.
‘I don’t ask you to.’
‘Age has made you complacent.’
‘I don’t think I’m invulnerable, if that’s what you mean. If someone wants to kill me – I presume one of the cliques over whom you hold theoretical jurisdiction has given you notice of such an intention – they’re at liberty to try.’ She pushed her hat back and squinted at him. ‘Exactly how much esteem do they hold you in? Enough to use innuendo? Do they respect you enough to grant you the courtesy of euphemism when they announce which of the city’s laws they’re planning to flout?’
‘Last warning. Your presence is a disruption. Leave.’
Hagar breathed in the Sheriff’s musk of sweat and tobacco. ‘Do you fear death?’
‘Yes. And I find your obsession with it far less intimidating than you imagine.’ His nostrils flared, tiny white filaments trembling as he breathed in, his chest swelling. ‘The flesh shambles clique are petitioning to the Spire Council to have the inauguration postponed.’
‘What? Why?’
‘They plan to file a formal protest tomorrow morning regarding “the movement of improper financial inducements liable to prejudice the election”. Bribes, Miss Ingery.’
‘Yes, yes, I know what a bribe is.’ She shot a glance over her shoulder. The harka sailor was still following, his arms hidden beneath his poncho, projecting a demeanour of studied disinterest. Possibly too far to eavesdrop. She supposed he might have shore leave for the festival. His presence might be coincidental. ‘The Grand-Duc is already on his way. They can’t.’
‘Forgive me, but legally speaking, they can. Towards the end of his tenure Prefect Colstrid introduced several statutes for precisely this situation.’
‘Statutes?’
‘Apparently he thought it best that interested parties have some legal recourse, to discourage dealing with constitutional issues in, ah . . . the traditional manner.’
‘Typical Tonti. Thinking he could stop murder with a bit of jurisprudence.’
‘Well.’ Kenner rolled his huge shoulders. ‘It looks rather prescient – or ironic – given the manner in which Prefect Colstrid relinquished his position.’
Oh Tonti. Perhaps you were wilier than I gave you credit for.
‘Didn’t stop his dying like a stuck pig, did it? I lived through the War in Heaven. You can’t legislate your way to consensus.’
As they walked, the quay was opening out into the more upmarket, less smelly marina, warehouses, fish guts and drooling sewage runnels giving way to restaurants and clubhouses. Carillon music rang from the balcony of a mustard bar. Sampan stalls passed under the boardwalk, laden with fruit and leaf-pouches of pipe weed. A hunched, whiskery vesperi was working the boards with a decrepit yak-hair broom, sweeping bones, wrappers and rinds into the water below. The sound of the Bataille Des Mats crowd had faded to a subliminal sigh. Unlit torches hung ready in braziers for the evening’s shunning.
‘This is your fault,’ said Kenner. ‘Your arrival has the cliques nervous. They think you’re here to rig the election. Anyone thought to be in your favour is immediately the object of suspicion.’
‘I’m surprised they’re so keen to court the dead hand of the palace.’
He scoffed. ‘Many fear the Grand-Duc’s emergence after so many years is an attempt to reclaim power. They’d prefer he didn’t come at all.’ He stopped, turned to face her. ‘We’re one outrage away from civil war. Mark me. I’ll do whatever’s necessary to preserve order.’ He touched a hand to one of his horns and performed a curt salute. ‘Fair tides, Miss Ingery.’ And he stomped off into the stilt city.
Hagar stood in the middle of the boardwalk, people filtering round her. She pressed a palm to her breastbone. Were her hands shaking? If Lesang’s butchers submitted their petition and the council approved it, the inauguration would be cancelled. Morgellon would not attend. She would lose her opportunity to confront him. Everything would be ruined.
