by Ian Whates
Praise for The City of a Hundred Rows series
"Born storyteller Ian Whates takes us on a gripping, terrifying trip-of-a-lifetime, through the heights and depths of the exotically grim city of Thaiburley, in this excellent fantasy thriller."
– Tanith Lee
"Adventures in a nightmare citadel – a story that hits the ground running and doesn't let up."
– Liz Williams
"The elements which constitute this novel may be familiar – a vast, stratified community, a ragamuffin on the run, criminals and officials vying for supremacy – but Whates's assured prose, slick pacing and inventive imagination make for a gripping read. His first novel is the work of a born storyteller."
– The Guardian
"Brilliantly inventive."
– SFX
"It is his characters who live through the story and make the reader need to know just how it's all going to pan out, human characters who may seem familiar but then there's that one thing, that shifted alteration that changes the world and changes the reader too."
– Michael Cobley
ALSO BY IAN WHATES
City of a Hundred Rows
City of Dreams and Nightmare
City of Hope and Despair
The Noise Within
The Noise Revealed
The Gift of Joy
(collection)
IAN WHATES
City of Light and Shadow
THE CITY OF A HUNDRED ROWS vol. III
This one is for Marco and Lee at Angry Robot for keeping faith and permitting me to tell the story.
ONE
Stu hated this place with a passion; it gave him the creeps. Typically, he'd drawn the short straw and the responsibility of carrying out the day's final inspection fell to him. Inspection? Of what, for Thaiss's sake? Weren't nothing here except a load of stiffs. Literally. And it wasn't as if they were going to cause trouble for anyone anytime soon.
Bone flu victims, row after row of them lined up along the floor side by side and then piled up on top of each other when there weren't no more room on the floor; each one as dead as the next.
There was something eerie about seeing a human body encased in a sheath of bone, like some hard-case method of embalming, let alone the couple of hundred that occupied the vast hall Stu was charged with patrolling. Especially when you considered that they'd all been alive just a few days before. And the bodies kept coming; more and more brought in every day.
The one saving grace was that you couldn't see their faces, which meant you could kid yourself these weren't people at all but just great big dolls or statues or something, newly made and waiting to have their faces painted on. That's what Stu did, that was how he coped.
This late inspection though, when there was no one else around – just him and the stiffs – he didn't like this, not one bit. It was easy to let your imagination run wild, to believe that these ominous figures with their knobbly off-white coatings weren't dead at all but were only sleeping, waiting to catch some poor soul on their own.
If it were up to him the stiffs would have been burned straight away, the lot of them, or buried, or whatever it took to get rid of the breckers. Course, nobody ever asked for his opinion, and the doctors, they wanted all the victims stored so they could study them and try to work out a cure. All well and good he supposed, but did they really need this many?
This inspection was going to be a quick one, and to hell with regulations. It was dark. The wan illumination that much of Thaiburley benefited from during daylight hours – thanks to an ingenious system of mirrors, crystals and glass tubes leading from the walls – had disappeared with the sunset, and this area didn't merit electricity, it wasn't posh enough. Nor were there any oil lamps lit here in the hall. What use did the dead have for light? So all Stu could call on was his big black battery powered torch. He hefted it in his right hand, reassured by its solid weight; a useful weapon if need be.
He strode quickly down the central aisle, swinging the torch from side to side, its beam playing across the dull white surfaces of the bone-encased bodies. Halfway. That was as far as he intended to go. The torch could reach the rest of the way from there. He'd play the light along the back wall, take a quick look to make sure everything was all right, and then get the hell out of there, job done.
Two more steps and he reckoned that was about far enough. So he stopped… which was when he heard the cracking sound. A sharp, loud snap, and it had come from his left and a little ahead. He whipped the torch around, cursing as the beam flickered, but it steadied again almost immediately. Nothing. Just the same gnarly effigies of human form; there was no sign of movement and he couldn't see anything obviously out of place. He stood there, conscious of his heart pounding and of his own heavy breathing, too loud in all this stillness. So what was he supposed to do now? Any further investigation meant stepping out among these things, and he was hanged if he was going to do that. Ignore it, that seemed the best option.
No sooner had he reached a decision than the sound came again. He jumped, nerves frayed. It had been closer this time, almost at his feet. Stu shone the torch at the nearest bony cadaver. Had it moved, just as the light reached it? His feet shuffled a few steps backward. Was that a crack? He craned forward despite himself, leaning down for a closer look. Yes, definitely a crack, running down the side of where the face would be, from the top to the chin.
Then came the loudest sound yet, like an explosion, as the figure split completely, ripping apart. The small crack expanded all the way to the body's groin and the two halves gaped wide. Light streamed from the resulting gap, causing Stu to stumble backwards, shielding his eyes. Squinting and looking through the cracks between his fingers, he watched as something stirred and a figure began to emerge from the calcified body.
Stu hadn't got a brecking clue what this was, but he knew they didn't pay him enough to hang around and find out. He turned and bolted for the door, dropping his torch in the process. But he was too slow; far, far too slow.
Assembly Member Carla Birhoff entered the grand hall and paused, casting her gaze around the room one final time before the first guests arrived. Her aim was not to focus on anything in particular – every detail had been scrutinised and approved according to her exacting standards during previous inspections and she now felt confident that each individual element was as perfect as it could be. No, it was how those components fitted together that concerned her at this stage, the assemblage which she had so meticulously planned. Her gaze, therefore, swept across the room, taking in the whole that was the sum of its many parts.
First impressions were paramount. The entire décor had been chosen with this one view in mind and geared towards maximum impact. She would greet her guests here on the mezzanine level, causing them to pause at the top of the small flight of steps that led down into the room proper. Then, as they turned to descend those steps, the whole vista opened up before them. She was determined that it should wow every single one of them.
And it would. It would.
White table cloths – one traditional detail she had insisted on, though the potential starkness was alleviated by fine, wide-mesh, golden-brown gauze which flowed from the middle of each table to cover roughly two thirds of its area. At the very centre sat an arrangement of bright red berries nestled among autumn leaves and pine cones, while flecks of gold leaf had been sprinkled over the weblike gauze, causing it to sparkle. The fanned napkins before each place setting matched the golden brown of the arrangement, and the stylish chairs were wooden framed, boasting deep burgundy upholstery. Small gifts in gold boxes awaited each lady when she arrived at her seat: tiny khybul sculptures – predominantly birds and fish. Simple pieces certainly, mere tokens, but all th
ose in attendance would know the value of khybul and appreciate the cumulative price of so many pieces, no matter their size.
The evening's seasonal theme was picked up again in a display that dominated the long wall directly opposite the stairs. A cascade of gold, brown and russet veils tumbled from ceiling to floor, transformed by artfully directed air currents and clever lighting into the wild rush of an autumnal waterfall. The illusion was completed by brown drapes gathered and pinned to the wall in imitation of rocks around which the veils flowed.
Another treat awaited guests at the bottom of the stairs. In order to find their appropriate seats, they would need to consult the table plan which stood to their right. Proudly displayed on a glass plinth beside the plan was Carla's latest acquisition: by far the largest, most intricate, and breathtakingly beautiful khybul sculpture she had ever seen. Here, depicted in sparkling crystal, was an exquisite representation of Thaiburley itself. The straight walls of the city seemed to erupt from a base of rugged rocks, shooting upwards to culminate in a dazzling array of delicate spires, chimneys and crenulations. The design cleverly encapsulated the spirit of Thaiburley's wondrous roof, while the walls of the piece were marked with the suggestion of tiny windows and even, here and there towards the top, a balcony or two. And if the ninety-odd floors of the City of a Hundred Rows were not all here, who would quibble? None could dispute that this was an inspired work and that the unknown artist had captured the spirit of Thaiburley in all its grandeur.
The piece had been far from cheap but Carla didn't begrudge a single penny. As soon as she clapped eyes on the sculpture she simply had to have it. Others might own khybul figures but none had anything in their collection to rival this.
Determined that no one would miss its magnificence, she had arranged for lights to be embedded in the glass stand, which then shone up through the sculpture and caused the whole piece to glow, while the tips of the spires sparkled with fairy light.
On the wall above and behind the crystal city hung a large painting, almost lost against the sculpture's magnificence. It was by the artist Arielle, once feted as the greatest painter of her generation. Completed more than two decades earlier, the picture depicted a ball, a lavish function much like the one about to commence. All present were evidently having a wonderful time. Faces glowed, smiles beamed, pale golden and deep burgundy wines flowed, the women were elegant and beautiful, the men dashing. Vibrant colours leapt from the canvas and it was hard to imagine that anyone involved had a care in the world. As you studied the painting, your eyes were inexorably drawn to the figure at the very centre of the composition: a woman, so young, so beautiful, so unmistakeably Carla.
She had always loved this painting, for its vibrancy and the pure joy of life it expressed, as well as the memories it stirred and the emotions it evoked, yet she hadn't looked at it for some fifteen years; not since the scandal. Arielle had once been Carla's closest friend and then her bitterest rival. Look at them now. The once celebrated artist had disappeared, her reputation sullied and her work forgotten, never to be seen in polite company again, while Carla had gone from strength to strength, becoming a respected member of the Assembly – the administrative body of Thaiburley's government – and the darling of the Heights' social circuit.
Carla looked at the painting again. In truth, she would have been hard pressed to explain the whim that had caused her to take it from storage for this, her big night, except that it seemed fitting somehow that the painting should be present as she reaffirmed her position as society's queen; not as a centrepiece, no, but in the shadow of something even more beautiful, acting as a faded reminder of rivals vanquished and glories past.
Her gaze finally reached the stage to her far right, where the multi-stringed duoharp was already in position, the great chordophone resembling a stylised heart. Its twin opposing soundboards met at the base, where they converged on the central pillar of polished wood and gleaming metal embellishments before sweeping upwards and outward like wings. Identical curved necks connected the rounded shoulders of the soundboards to the pillar's crown.
The instrument was to be played by the Gallagher Sisters, said to be among the finest musicians in all Thaiburley. The dark haired girl – older and prettier than her sibling – was already in place, studiously tuning her half of the harp, but the seat opposite her was empty. Carla felt a flash of irritation that both girls weren't ready and she was about to call out when the blonde, sour-faced one hurried over to take her seat, licking her fingers and chewing on something, as if having snatched a bite to eat before the performance.
Carla pursed her lips. She was tempted to take the girl to task but in the end decided to put it down to artistic temperament. Instead she returned her attention to completing her survey of the room, which ended with a glance down at her own dress. Commissioned from Chanice, one of the Heights' hottest designers, the gown featured a beautifully arranged skirt of layered silks graduating from autumnal russets at the bottom to shimmering scarlet at the top, matching the bodice. The dress was so artfully cut that the skirt avoided being billowy while still drawing in tightly at the waist to emphasise her slender figure. Carla had studied herself from every angle before coming here, and was confident that she looked fantastic. Scarlet could be an unforgiving shade, one she probably wouldn't dare risk in another five or ten years, but she felt bold tonight and knew she still retained enough of her youthful glamour to get away with such audacious display. While she could, she would.
Finally satisfied, Carla allowed herself a small smile. Everything seemed in readiness; soon the great and the good of Heights' society would be here to pay her tribute. She would accept their compliments with an appropriate degree of grace and modesty, of course, while privately secure in the knowledge that she had earned each and every plaudit.
An hour later found Carla in her element, meeting and greeting, sharing a few words with this couple, a sentence or two with another and a joke with the next, before flitting away to greet a late arrival. The Gallagher Sisters were playing divinely, though as more people arrived and the volume of conversation grew louder it was becoming increasingly difficult to hear them unless you were standing right next to the stage. Not that it mattered. The fact that Carla had secured their services when others had failed to do so was reward enough.
She handed a barely touched flute of finest Elyssen champagne to a waiter – she had been holding the glass for far too long and the wine had lost much of its chill and fizz – and took a fresh one, savouring a sip of cool dry effervescence before the customary smile slipped back into place. She laughed politely at the end of someone's anecdote, a tale she'd only half been listening to. The smile was one which had been perfected over many years: the expression of a hostess who knows her evening is a success and is confident that it will only get better. In the corner of her eye she saw white jacketed waiters circulating with what should be the final trays of warm canapés. It would soon be time to usher the guests to their seats for the meal. Glowing comment had already been made about her khybul sculpture, most pleasingly from young Xyel, a pretty little thing who saw herself as something of an emerging rival to Carla. Poor deluded girl. Her Summer Soirée had been pleasant enough but she still had a lot to learn. Carla reserved a special smile for her.
A ripple of polite applause ran through the section of the room closest to the stage as the Gallagher Sisters finished their latest piece – surely the penultimate one of their set – and Carla noted waiters returning to the kitchen with empty salvers. She looked across and caught the maître d's eye. He nodded, to show that he was on top of the timings. If things continued to run this smoothly, she might even be able to relax a fraction and enjoy herself during the meal.
It was a little thing really in the context of everything else that was going on: the scream that heralded such a dramatic change of fortune for Carla and all those present. Most wouldn't even have heard it. The only reason Carla did was because she happened to be at the top of the small flight
of steps, at the spot where she'd greeted the guests, and so was close to the door. The scream came from outside; high pitched and unmistakeably a woman's. Conversation on the mezzanine level died and for a second there was a bizarre contrast between the silence to Cara's left and the continuing hubbub from the rest of the room to her right.
When no further indication of disturbance came, those closest to Carla resumed talking, with a shrug of their shoulders or a knowing rise of the eyebrows, and muttered comments such as, "Kids!"
Jean, the maître d', had moved across to speak to the doorman, but nobody seemed concerned and Carla was about to dismiss the incident as a minor glitch soon forgotten, when the doors burst inward and Hell strode through the opening.
The first figure was merely a giant, towering above Jean and the doorman. The latter tried to block the intruder's way, but the burly man was picked up and tossed into the room in one motion, crashing into a knot of startled guests. The maître d' was simply brushed aside.
