by Nik Korpon
“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” I say.
“‘Nothing I couldn’t handle’ doesn’t sound promising,” Walleus says. “You need a helper next time?”
This elicits snickers from the cronies. Belousz simply stares at me.
I nod at the chips in the middle of the table. “They seem pretty integral to this operation here.” I measure my words, not putting too many teeth in them but enough to keep his lackeys from getting the impression that I can be insulted by anyone.
Walleus hefts himself up, points to an empty booth, says, “Sit.”
I take my time getting there, though it is only twenty feet away. When I look inside, I find Cobb drawing meandering shapes on the table screen. He yawns, his lopsided mouth opening only halfway. My skin prickles on seeing him but I sit nonetheless, albeit on the opposite side of the table.
Once Walleus lowers himself into some privacy, he says, “Things would be a lot more pleasant for you if you quit that little pissing match. There ain’t that much difference between the two of you, anyway.”
“Aside from cutting off Josihe’s head.”
“He was a worthless soldier from the start. And if he’d been paying attention, Belousz wouldn’t have gotten a jump on him. You only gave Josihe the nod because your wives were friends.” He hooks his thumb over his shoulder. “We might’ve broke a lot more necks if we had Belousz on our side back then.”
“But back then, you would’ve rather broken your own neck than say something like that.”
He purses his lips, arches his eyebrows. “Well, I learned to move on.”
“Is that what this is called?”
Leaning forward, he sets his jaw, ready to unleash a torrent. Then he switches gears so quickly it’s almost disorienting. Such is Walleus. “Did you find the jewelry?”
“What jewelry?”
“The hangman’s widow in Fomora?”
“I’ll be all right,” I say, shaking my head.
“It’s not charity if you’re working for it,” he says. “It’s a tip.”
“I’m all right.”
“Fine. Starve. See if I care. I’m only trying to help the family.”
I give him a blank stare. “My family is dead.”
“I’m well aware of that, Henraek.” He closes his eyes and lets go a long, exasperated sigh. “I meant Emeríann.”
He shakes his head and smooths the silken strands of Cobb’s hair. His boy sits beside him like a trembling peregrine falcon, staring at his drawings, his fingers pressed so hard against the screen that I half expect it to crack. Still, I swear I can still feel his gaze burning on my flesh. He rubs his gnarled, stunted body against Walleus’s suit. His scaled skin, a product of his blood disease, scratches on the linen fabric.
I’ve been toiling as a memory thief for more than six years, draining citizens of their pasts and coming in here to trade them, and still my skin feels too small for my body whenever I am near Cobb. There’s no reason a grown man should be so unsettled by a twelve year-old.
“That was low,” I say. “You didn’t tell me I was going to Riab’s address.”
He flinches slightly, as if this surprises him. “I didn’t know,” he says. “I get paid to hand them out, not read them.”
“You also didn’t tell me there’d be someone else home,” I say. “It almost cost me.”
“Surveillance isn’t my wheelhouse–”
“I’m painfully aware of that, Walleus.” I’m tempted to say something more, something about watching dead families that I know will cut him, in return for all the slights he’s given me to maintain his position of authority, but shut my mouth because there’s no point in arguing.
“Look,” he says. “I give you names, you give me brains. Your list is your word, hear? That’s all I need to worry about.” He purses his lips then exhales. “If you’re not up for this anymore, let me know. I’m sure I can scare up a hole for you. Might even have the old one still waiting.”
“Vials are in the case. Everything else is under control.” I lean closer to him, changing tack before he tries to bait me into another argument. “Do you remember that power substation we did? Out in the fields?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“I know you remember it. You were still with us then, weren’t you?” I keep my voice low. “You never leaked anything, right?”
He closes his eyes for a long beat then opens them abruptly. “We are sitting in the middle of a prized Tathadann building.”
“Tell me I’m right.”
“What’s it matter what I say? You always think you’re right anyway.” He shakes his head. “Let me get your list for tomorrow.” Walleus clears his throat and calls for one of the lackeys, another new one it seems from the way he hustles over, still eager to please. He hands a piece of paper to Walleus, who lets it hang out before me. I snatch it and he smiles.
Four addresses down and I stop.
“What is this?”
“What?” he says.
“I was there today. Why do you want his dad too?”
“Word from on high.” He shrugs, not even needing to ask the address to know what I’m talking about. “Look at it positively. They trust you above all the others.”
“Why are they interested in Riab’s family?”
His mouth a knife line, Walleus says, “Because they are, and we work for them.”
A rapid click silences the table. Walleus turns to see the lackey staring at Cobb so hard it almost makes me uncomfortable. Cobb nestles closer to Walleus.
“Is there a problem?” Walleus says.
The lackey doesn’t answer.
Walleus clears his throat to get the man’s attention, only to swing his hand like a blade at the man’s neck. The sound of cartilage shredding his breath is like a dying breeze over a broken glass bottle. His body collapses into a writhing pile beside the table, his legs kicking and hands slapping at his crushed windpipe. His face turns so red it’s purple. Walleus soothes Cobb with one hand while calling for one of the plebes to get this man some medical attention.
“You’re still here?” he says.
“Whatever. I’m going home. See you tomorrow morning.”
He nods at Cobb. “We’re making special pancakes tomorrow. Let’s push it back half an hour.”
“I don’t care,” I shrug and step over the man, legs barely tapping the floor. “It doesn’t matter.”
* * *
Blackened lines climb along the stairwell to my apartment like the EKG of a cinder heart, the residue of a fire that spread from the building on the left. The exposed light bulbs in the hallway sing in the frequency of hornets, the one before our apartment flickering long-short-long-short. A sprinkling of crushed glass lies along the baseboard, either an old memory vial or glass dropped by the lagon woman across the hall who constantly forgets where she lives. Half the time I come home, I expect to see her in my living room, looking for her cat.
Earthen spices hit me as soon as I open the door with my key. A pan sizzles in the kitchen, Emeríann singing quietly as she cooks. I call out to her then kick off my boots by the couch, my bare feet leaving tracks across the recently swept floor. The gnarled wood remains dull, the color of stagnant coffee.
Emeríann stands before the stove, swaying to the rhythm of the song. I set my hands on her hips and she startles and spins, wooden spoon reared back and ready to gouge my eyes.
“Goddammit,” she says, lowering the spoon. “I almost killed you.”
“You’re halfway a criminal already, apparently. I said hi when I came in.”
“Oh, I couldn’t hear.” She kisses my cheek then returns to stirring the root vegetables and strips of brown meat. “Dinner’s ready in ten if you need to change.”
I kiss the back of her neck then go into the adjoining living room and open a window, swinging the iron bars aside.
To the west is the pale glow along the lid of the world’s eye, the mountain range cutting a dark, jagged line against th
e red sky and the silhouette of rigs puncturing the land. Past the mountains are the charred fields of Westhell County, where Walleus and I come from. And past that, well, people from here rarely go that far, and none of them venture here. Beyond the hills, there are likely only roving bands of scavengers with bloodlines long mingled. Or there could be nothing at all anymore, which might be the worst.
When the wind is strong enough to blow away some of the haze, I can sit on the ledge with a glass of Emeríann’s bourbon and watch the flames in Amergin samba up to the sky. Today, though, the air is dead, thick with sulfur and ash.
The dull thrumming of Eitan City is as hypnotizing as Emeríann’s singing. At our rallies during the Struggle, she would always break into song and work the crowd into a frenzy. Aífe and I would dance a two-step while Emeríann sang, her late husband Riab nearly iridescent with pride while watching from the crowd.
I lean out the window and extend my arm, whistle, and wait for Silas to land.
My dead son, Donael, named his last two cats Silas. I thought it appropriate, despite the city slowly burning itself to death, to continue the tradition.
Silas’s fellow pigeons strut along the ledge, pecking at the bowl of rock salt I leave out for them. If anything could have survived the Struggle, I would have put my money on cockroaches. The pigeons adapted by molting their feathers into something like leather and augmenting their diet. They were the dark horse of the evolutionary arms race and I cannot help but admire their ingenuity.
Silas lands on my forearm, his feet warmed from standing on concrete. His coos grotesquely affectionate, he presses his head against my palm, forcing me to pet him. I turn around to sit at the table and catch a death-stare from Emeríann. If she weren’t holding a plate of food in her hand, she would surely press both fists into her cocked hips and exhale hard. I stop in place, consider her, then look at Silas.
“Sorry, pal.” I set him back on the ledge where he pecks at the rock salt with the rest of his flock, then pull out Emeríann’s chair.
“He’s sweet, I know,” she says, setting the plate in front of me then sitting and draping a piece of burlap over her lap. “But he’s also a filthy flying rat.”
“But a filthy flying rat with personality,” I say.
“Of course.”
Two dozen found-art sculptures hang on the walls of the apartment. Emeríann’s mother had been an artist – a classic artist – back before the Struggle, and Emeríann definitely inherited that creativity. But since everything went to hell, paints have been hard to come by, so Emeríann has had to quell her creative demons by making art out of the debris she collects from the streets. I don’t pretend to understand what her projects mean, but she likes making something beautiful out of all the pain and suffering out there, and I like her liking something.
“So,” I say, “blow anything up yet?”
She stabs vegetables with her fork. I bite into the meat. Squirrel, I believe, though the marinades she concocts do wonders to take the game out of it.
“I’m sorry,” I say, changing tack. “How was the rest of your day?”
She gives an affected smile, but it feels more relieved than pained.
“No one vomited on me, so that was nice.” She cuts her food into equal-sized bits, shifts the fork to her right hand and chews with tiny bites.
“The apartment is clean,” I say.
She smiles and winks, smoothing back her hair with her palm, as if saying she worked a shift then cleaned the apartment and still her hair looks perfect. Which it does. It always does.
“So you can speak freely if you like.” I motion around at the room with my knife. “Without regard to me or them.”
“If we talk, we’ll fight, and I don’t want to fight. Besides,” she raises her eyebrows as if nudging me with her elbow, “you’re the pacifist, anyway.”
“That’s ideological, and could–”
“Henraek,” she says, her voice controlled but with an undertone of warning. She takes a breath and gives me a strained smile. “Your dinner’s going to get cold.”
I concede and take a bite, flicking my tongue at a hard bit of gristle stuck between my back teeth. “Where did you find steak?” I say.
She stops chewing and cocks her head, a smile blooming over her lips. “How do you stand yourself?”
If only I could answer that.
* * *
I resist the urge to interrogate her about the impending bombing for the sake of civility, and we finish the rest of the meal in pleasant fashion. She sets the dishes in the sink and I tell her to leave them, that I’ll wipe them off later, as the water here usually makes them dirtier. I pat the space on the couch next to me, invite her to sit.
“I love you, Henraek, but I want to set your couch on fire.”
“It’s got character,” I say.
“You can’t use the same justification for a couch and a flying rodent.”
I guide her down beside me, set her feet onto my lap and rub my thumbs into the arch. Her eyes drift closed.
But as I massage, I see the image of Riab’s grandfather on the back of my skull, his father’s name written beneath it. I examine it from a hundred angles, trying to find some way to approach Emeríann about her former in-laws and the Tathadann’s sudden interest in them. Even though her face is the picture of relaxation and it would be a cardinal sin to disturb her, I can’t shake the memory of Walleus wincing and wonder if it’s all connected.
“So.” I clear my throat, though I don’t have much to follow with.
She sighs. “Really?”
“Is everything OK with Forgall?”
Her eyebrows rise slightly. “How so?”
“All of your plans, and whatnot. Everything’s secure?”
“Things are quiet and in motion, if that’s what you mean.” She takes a deep breath, blinking away the promise of sleep.
“But no one’s talking? Forgall hasn’t told anyone?”
“He’s told his people but I highly doubt anyone else.” She breathes half a laugh. “He was pissed I told you.”
“Why? He think I’ll try to take it over?” I feel the blossom of pride in my chest. “Or that I’d do it better than him?”
“No.” She blinks a few times. “Doesn’t trust anyone who comes near lagonael. His brother was one.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m not,” I say. “When are you going to do it?”
“Next week.”
“During the statue dedication? That’s dangerous.”
A small smile crosses her lips.
“Hell, Emeríann. It’s the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Tathadann founding. Do you have any idea how many soldiers they’ll have guarding the area?”
“Do you have any idea how many cameras they’ll have filming it?” she says. “When they see the boar-face hologram on the statue, then hear the big boom?” She shakes her head, grinning at the image.
I nod, stretch out the cramps forming in my fingers. She’s got a point. “That’s only ten days away. Has he looked at all the logistics? Do you have all the supplies? Capacitors, charges, shielding wire? What about trigger points, escape routes?”
Pulling her feet from my lap, she pushes herself to sitting. She leans in and peers at me. “Are you worried about me?”
“If I didn’t think you could handle yourself in a stressful situation, I never would have suggested we live together.”
“I don’t know what happened with you and Forgall back then,” she says, “but it’s none of my business.”
“It’s not back then. It’s all the time. His family has Morrigan blood, but no one spits on him in the street and calls him a traitor. And then he has the gall to suggest that Walleus–”
“Love,” she says, grabbing my hand. “It doesn’t matter. Who gives a damn what some assholes say? He knows what he’s doing, and I need to do this. I’m sick of being their victim, all of us living the way they tell us to. They’ve ruined thousands of lives here and they’re going
to keep doing it even after Morrigan dies. This is my home now, the place I want to raise a family. And I’m not going to let them rule over my family’s lives. And before you ask – no, I’m not pregnant.” She punctuates it with a brief wry smile. “I spend all day getting people drunk and helping them forget about life for a while. Sometimes I make pretty things to put on our walls. But these fireworks? They’re my opportunity to do something real, something my kids will be proud of. I need them. We, all of Eitan, need them. Now is the time for them.”
“No, I know, but it’s…” I scratch my stubble and try to collect my thoughts, push away others I’m not willing to acknowledge. “You could’ve asked me. I would’ve helped you.”
She gestures toward the belt of vials sitting on the table in front of the couch. “I didn’t ask you because I care about you.”
“I know, but–”
“Come by tomorrow when you can. I’ll show you what we’ve got so you can sleep peacefully.” She stretches her hands over her head, leaning back until her hipbones pop from beneath her shirt. Arms spread like a swan, she leans down and touches her toes, letting out a deep satisfied breath. “Are you coming to bed?”
I nod. “Got a few things to go over first.”
“Surveillance again?” she says, knowing it’s not, but it’s our unspoken agreement not to discuss it.
“I’ll be in soon,” I say.
“I have things I should be doing too, you know, but I’d rather spend time with you.”
“I know. I won’t be long.”
She chews on her bottom lip, stares at me with those eyes for a moment, then lets out a short breath. “How many times is that this week?”
