by Lam, Laura
He moved into my arms, hiding his face against my neck as if ashamed. He absolutely reeked of the sweet alcohol. It worried me. He’d drunk in the circus at the bonfire, and he’d have the odd glass of drink in the evenings here at the theatre. Once he’d bought a bottle of horrible, cheap gin, and we’d sat on the pier overlooking the circus on the beach and drunk it as we entrusted each other with secrets.
But I wasn’t used to seeing him drunk. And I knew he didn’t like to be inebriated, not after he’d lost over a year of his life stoned and drunk and running away from reality however he could.
His tears dampened my neck. I stroked his hair. He didn’t want to speak about the pain of his father being right there and not recognizing him. And even if he had realized, Drystan was the estranged son, the rotten branch pruned from the family tree.
Eventually, his breathing slowed. He’d cried himself to sleep. I pressed my eyes shut against my own tears, and tried to follow.
This laboratory below the university was ancient, but it would serve my needs well enough. The two bodies were in Vestige Ampulla tanks I’d stolen earlier that night from the university. It hadn’t been easy to bring them down here, but I’d managed eventually, inch by painful inch. I was covered in grease and dirt and my scalp itched with sweat.
My new laboratory was underground; the only light was the flickering lights of stubs of candles and the green glow from the tanks. The tables and benches were covered with beakers, some simmering over gas burners. The air smelled of damp and chemicals and freshly-turned earth.
Two bodies floated within the tank. They looked perfect. The man was from the university hospital, the woman from the grave.
Ampulla tanks would help keep the bodies fresh, but they would still slowly decay, even with regular injections of the serum. I pressed my palms against the glass.
‘Soon,’ I whispered. ‘Soon this will all fall into place. My task will be complete.’
It was time for the first experiment. I turned on the tank closest to me, fingers running over the controls, slowly figuring out how they worked.
The girl’s body rose, her hair floating about her face. I’d taken great care with her, brushing her hair until it gleamed. The auburn strands undulated gently in the waters of the tank. Her skin was bone-pale, but would be the colour of the palest pink rose once blood pumped through her veins again. I imagined her alive, radiant. I smiled.
The body fell to the floor of the tank, the hair falling over her face. The control panel sparked, and the precious vessel within jerked with the force of electricity. I frantically banged on the controls, but I couldn’t open the tank. Within moments, the body was boiled, and even a new tank and more serum wouldn’t be able to save it. I bashed at the controls again, and the liquid fled the tank.
I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, but then someone might hear me. My breath came raggedly through my nose.
I dried out the corpse and set her aflame in an old bathtub with the help of a Vestige Brimstone solution, until nothing was left but ash.
Still so far away from what I needed. Now I needed to find and steal another tank.
And another human girl, freshly dead.
I awoke just past dawn, every part of my body aching.
‘What the Styx is going on?’ I asked. Drystan turned over in the bed, but no one else answered me.
Yet I knew someone who must be able to give me some answers.
I grabbed the Aleph, and went into the lounge before pressing the switch. Anisa appeared. She was fainter in the early light.
‘What do the dreams mean?’ I asked. ‘Are you sending them?’
‘The grave-robbing dreams?’ She shook her head, as if mystified. ‘It’s still happening?’
‘Yes. Whoever is stealing the bodies is trying to bring them back to life.’
She closed her eyes and her awareness spread through me, picking at the memories of my dreams. ‘I can’t sense who they are,’ she said sadly. ‘It’s as though it’s blocked.’
‘What do I do?’ We still didn’t know who it was. The body didn’t feel like Pozzi, and this time I’d caught a glimpse of bare hands. No clockwork. Timur, or one of his Kashura?
‘I am afraid I have no answers for you, little Kedi. You could try to search, but I have a feeling this resurrectionist is very clever. We can only hope that he will slip.’ She looked worried. ‘It bodes ill, and it speaks of desperation.’
Before I could answer, she turned away from me and disappeared back into the Aleph. And even when I flicked the switch again, she did not reappear.
15
THE NICKEL DAILY
If the monarchy continues to bury its head in the sand and ignore the discontent of its people, there will be trouble. We cannot deny it any longer.
— Editorial, The Nickel Daily
When I woke up, my body was too heavy to move. My throat itched, and my eyelids refused to stay open. I tried to sit up, and fell back against the pillows.
‘I feel ill,’ I told Drystan, ‘almost like I did when I collapsed.’
‘Your appointment with Pozzi is tomorrow. The Elixir must be wearing off.’
I shivered, hating being this dependent on it.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked him.
‘I have a bugger of a hangover,’ he admitted. ‘Feel like Saitha stepped on my head.’
Saitha was the elephant of R. H. Ragona’s Circus of Magic. I’d helped look after her right after I joined.
‘Aside from your head, how are you?’ I pressed.
Drystan shrugged. ‘Been better, but I’ll live. Let’s go to breakfast. I need to drink my weight in water and coffee, and eat some grease.’
‘Grease on its own? Delicious.’
‘A whole vat of it.’
We bantered on the way down to the kitchen, and the jokes lifted Drystan’s spirits.
When we entered the kitchen, our smiles faded. Cyril had come to visit, and he, Maske, and Cyan were huddled together over the newspaper, worry emanating from them.
‘What’s happened?’ I asked.
Maske pushed the paper towards us. It was an entire issue devoted to the current political situation in Ellada. It wasn’t the Daily Imacharan or one of the other big newspapers, but a smaller rag, the Nickel Daily.
‘The Steward didn’t want people to see it and ordered it all pulped or burned,’ Cyan said in a hushed voice. ‘But I heard about it, and found one this morning.’
Drystan and I read side by side. The newspaper claimed that we were on the brink of a civil war. Forester support was growing and finally, whispers of the Kashura were going mainstream. Some thought violence was a necessary evil for the greater good. People still stared at their neighbours out of the corners of their eyes, anonymously sending letters to the Constabulary, convinced the old lady upstairs or the baker down the street was secretly Chimaera. Accusations of hidden scales, witchcraft, the evil eye all abounded.
Three months ago, I wouldn’t have said that Elladans were particularly superstitious. I’d since changed my mind.
Mistrust of the Royal Family had been growing steadily, judging by the newspaper article. Focused on our own troubles, we’d been a little cut off from that sentiment. Maske read the newspaper every morning, but those against the royalty knew better than to print such sentiments, at least until today. Some evidently thought the Snakewood family was behind the Celestial Cathedral attack, using the Chimaera as their agents to harm the public. Never mind that the casualty number that day was low thanks to the security measures of the Royal Family. Others thought the attack had been a plot from one or more of the other islands to weaken Ellada’s powers. The Colonies successfully sued for independence, but some of the older generations thought we should still be an empire. The article capitalized on that fear, stating that the colonies were planning on levying trade barriers to watch us flounder on our own once war broke out.
It didn’t take a Shadow to understand why the Steward would want this ba
nned. It attacked the monarchy’s decisions directly and showcased Ellada’s weaknesses. No matter how much they tried to hide this, copies would still circulate, or rumours pass in whispers behind hands. Throwing whoever wrote this into prison and shutting down the newspaper would make little difference at this point. Word had spread, and we lived in a country where to speak out against royalty was rarely done.
I had grown up never questioning, never seeing how the nobility behaved, how differently the branches of the Twelve Families lived compared to those in the lowest roots of society. Even when I’d run away and lived on the streets and eked out a simple life in the circus, I’d never stopped to think and wonder why the world was like that for so many. Did it have to be?
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if a Kashura sympathizer wrote this,’ Cyril said. My brother folded his hands together, thinking.
‘It’s likely, yes,’ Maske agreed. ‘This would be an effective way to undermine the monarchy. Incite others to do their dirty work for them. Styx.’
I set the paper down. ‘Civil war still seems a stretch. People are upset, angry, afraid – but afraid enough for war? A full class revolt?’ Naively, I’d hoped this mess between the Kashura, the calmer branch of the Foresters, and the monarchy would sort itself out with no more bloodshed. Too much to hope for.
‘It might be enough to ignite the flame,’ Cyril said.
His words made me flinch, for they reminded me of something Anisa had once said to me: ‘One leader to spark the zeitgeist, and the world changes.’
I made myself a cup of coffee, stirring in milk and sugar. Outside, the Penny Rookeries awoke. How many people out there had read the newspaper already? How would they react? I was still exhausted and worn down, and the beginnings of a headache pulsed at my temples.
We were silent as Maske brought out bread, butter, and preserves. We spoke of other things, trying to drive the thought of war and uprisings from our minds.
‘You did well last night,’ Cyril said, biting into a slice of toast.
‘Thank you,’ I answered. ‘What did the guests say? Anything interesting?’
‘They all watched what they were saying. Lots of small talk. I did overhear something between Lord Hornbeam and Lord Cinnabari, though.’
I suppressed another wince and didn’t look at Drystan.
‘What did you hear?’ Cyan asked.
‘Lord Hornbeam was annoyed to see the Royal Physician there and kept glaring at him out of the corner of his eye. He muttered to Lord Cinnabari that he hoped the Physician would go on another sabbatical. Cinnabari mentioned he’d enjoyed the Physician’s last book and the recent article in the Royal Snakewood medical journal. But I think it was more that Lord Hornbeam hoped the Physician would go away and not be so close to the Royal Family. When the Physician leaned down to ask Princess Nicolette something, Hornbeam looked like he’d pop a blood vessel.’
‘Interesting,’ I said. ‘Maybe Lord Hornbeam hasn’t been around the family as much, especially when Pozzi’s treating the Princess. Maybe he doesn’t know about her.’
‘Know what about her?’ Cyril asked. Maske frowned at me.
Styx. I was so tired I was letting things slip. ‘Sorry, I’m not allowed to say. The Steward made us promise, and he’s not someone I want to break promises to.’
‘Not even a hint?’ Cyril said, flashing me his cheekiest grin.
‘Nice try, but sorry. I don’t think breaking a promise to our monarch is a good idea. He could Augur us to see if we told anyone.’
‘That’s a good point,’ Maske said. But neither of them was happy to be left out of the secret.
Cyril looked at Drystan. ‘Sorry, but . . . do you know Lord Hornbeam?’
Drystan waved his fingers. ‘Everyone else knows, so I guess you may as well. I was once Lord Hornbeam’s son.’
Cyril’s mouth formed an ‘o’ as he put it together that the young man sitting across the table from him was the estranged son of the Hornbeam family. ‘We . . . played hide and seek together a few times!’ he sputtered.
Drystan burst out laughing. ‘That we did. You were good at it, as I recall.’
‘I can’t believe I didn’t see it before.’
‘The mind sees what it wants to see, not what is there.’
Cyril’s gaze flicked to me as he realized I was seeing the boy who sparked all those rumours years ago. It would’ve been almost comical if I wasn’t so nervous. Drystan was always one to keep his secrets to himself. He’d been annoyed at me when I’d told Cyan about my past, thinking I was foolhardy to trust her so quickly. I couldn’t even remember if we ever told Cyan Drystan’s true name, if she’d figured it out, or plucked it from our minds.
‘I see,’ Cyril said.
‘Did you hear anything else?’ I asked, desperate to change the subject.
‘Nothing of note.’ He finished his coffee. ‘I have to head to my lecture, then I’m going to the hospital to visit Mother.’
‘I’ve lots of practice this afternoon,’ I said guiltily, in response to his unasked question. I’d told him I’d perhaps try to reach her again, or that Cyan would, but neither of us had returned to the hospital.
Maske raised his eyebrows and took a bite of bread, but said nothing.
Cyril sighed. ‘All right.’ He finished his coffee and washed his plate and cup.
Drystan threw away most of his breakfast and grabbed his coat before Cyril even left the table. He didn’t wish us farewell or say where he was going.
Poor Drystan, Cyan sent to me.
Leave him his thoughts.
I have, but there’s no shielding myself from those emotions. He’s hurting.
I know. He didn’t want to be around any of us just now.
The next morning, before my appointment with Doctor Pozzi, Drystan said he wanted to take a walk through the Penny Rookeries. Cyril had come over again first thing, books in hand, saying he studied better here.
We all had a quick breakfast, and then Maske returned to his makeshift workshop, but Cyan and Cyril lingered over another cup of coffee, talking. I heard the laughter as I put on my coat. I was so tired, my movements were jerky and hesitant. I didn’t really want to leave the flat. I’d rather have gone back to my bed until it was time to visit Pozzi. After that visit, I’d be more than willing to go for a walk, perform street magic, jump backflips.
‘They seem to be getting along well,’ Drystan said, with a meaningful raise of his eyebrows in the direction of the kitchen and Cyril and Cyan.
‘You don’t think . . . ?’ I’d been so caught up in my own troubles, I hadn’t noticed anything between them. ‘I thought Cyan thought he was a rich twat.’ I remembered her snapping at him on the Long Night of the Lady.
Reaching towards Cyan revealed nothing. She was closed to me. So was Cyril. My powers were weaker when I needed my next dose. When I tried again, I could just sense that Cyril was very interested in what Cyan was saying, his eyes lingering on the curve of her lips. I jumped back from his mind.
‘Oh, Lord and Lady, he likes her. A lot. I feel like a peeping Tom.’ The effort had also winded me. I tried to hide it. Drystan was acting almost normal again, and I didn’t want to risk him sinking back into his doldrums.
‘Well, you were peeping. Leave them be. None of our business.’
Chastened, I followed him out to the street, throwing a quick goodbye to Cyan and Cyril, hoping my blush wasn’t too obvious.
Outside, summer was truly arriving. The air was hot and sticky, and my clothing immediately itched and clung to my skin. We passed a grocer’s, and the apples smelled so good that I bought two and we ate them as we walked down the narrow, crowded streets.
Evidence of poverty was everywhere. None of the streets were properly cobbled, and I had to pick my way carefully so I didn’t trip in the divots or step in horse droppings. The homeless people on the streets made my heart ache. I kept my purse full of coppers and gave them what I could, but it still felt like it was not near enough. The fac
es I passed had the scars of smallpox, rotten teeth, and were too thin from hunger. More Forester posters were in the windows than I remembered. Sentiment against royalty was turning, as they kept promising a better life and never delivering. Councils had given the Steward petition after petition, new budgets, yet hardly anything was actively done. Drystan thought that Ellada’s coffers were distressingly empty, but that they couldn’t let the country know how poor we’d become for fear it’d only bring on conflict all the faster.
We drifted closer to the docks. The air smelled of fish, both fresh and not so fresh, and the acrid smell of fish guts. Stallholders hawked their wares and tried to entice us to purchase some shellfish or herring. I’d never been keen on fish to begin with and shook my head, continuing on. Drystan bought a small bag of smoked kippers and I pulled a face.
‘You’re not kissing me after eating those,’ I said.
‘You won’t be able to resist my charms,’ he said.
‘I will if you smell like a fish. Sorry.’
We laughed, and it was so good to simply walk through the streets, not thinking about performing or politics or worrying about being pursued and trapped. At another stall, we bought some iced lemonade and found an abandoned dock, sitting with our legs over the sides.
‘It’s like that night in the circus,’ I said, sipping my tart drink. It helped wake me up.
‘Except that was night time, the air didn’t smell so much like rotten fish, and we were drinking really bad gin instead of me nursing a particularly violent hangover.’ He squinted into the sunlight. His hair shone bright gold, freckles speckled across his cheeks like cinnamon. I wanted to kiss him, but hesitated, feeling like I couldn’t be physically affectionate while we were both dressed as men and hating that pause. Though he did still smell of kippers. I settled for putting my hand over his and squeezing.
Drystan leaned back on his forearms, closing his eyes. ‘I never want to drink port again.’
I chuckled, but it faded away. ‘What do you think of the Nickel Daily article?’ I asked. It was still on my mind. Drystan was good at knowing all the different angles of a political problem.
