The Seeds of Dissolution (Dissolution Cycle Book 1)
Page 33
* * *
It took a day for Origon and the others to scope out the prison, a massive stone and resin construction, dome-shaped like other Lobath dwellings. It loomed over the rest of the structures in the town save the columns, their immense radii a constant reminder. Whenever they approached the prison, Origon saw the serious-looking Lobath at the entrance, all in matching purple jumpsuits with the emblem of Gloomlight prison on the upper arm. Their head-tentacles were uniformly braided, large unblinking silvery eyes flicking right and left in the drizzling rain.
Gloomlight had been settled by the Lobath back when the Nether was first colonized, before the Aridori war, as one of the best places to farm the fungi and spices the Lobath traders lauded. Now it was where many of the Lobath in the Nether lived, enough so their party stood out. When it was first built, the Lobath had protested the decision to house the largest prison complex in the Nether. Now, keeping it was a source of pride to them.
Origon’s apprentice had gone off with the twins, taking walks in the continuous rain. Sam’s excuse was he wanted to grow accustomed to Gloomlight so he would not have a panic attack when they broke into the prison. Origon wondered what really happened when he and Enos were captured. There was some secret there, that none of the maji were privy to. Sam nearly had to hold Enos back when Origon told them about the Aridori. That incident, combined with Inas’ reactions, ruffled his feathers, and made Origon suspect unpleasant connections where there were none. He determined to get the answer to it soon, if only to ease his mind.
They were staying near the center of the city, where a column, even thicker than the ones in the Imperium, speared up to the Nether’s ceiling. It gave off a faint light that made the city center slightly brighter than the surroundings. Gloomlight stayed dusky twilight throughout the day, and pitch black at night.
“I’m sure it’s held here,” Rilan said. “Still, good to be sure.”
“Have these ones heard the news?” Caroom asked, reading a paper while propped against a wall. “Hathssas will be the new, hmm, councilor for the House of Power.”
“A weak choice,” Origon said. “She likely has ties to the Most Traditional Servants. In the worst case, now that Hathssas is in the Council, the Life Coalition may be hearing news before we do.” It was an unsettling prospect, and he felt his crest flatten.
Origon idled badly. The next day he worked with Sam a little, on listening to the Symphony, and was surprised at the progress his apprentice had made. From being unable to hear the music to having themes of Communication rumbling in the back of one’s head usually took months, not ten-days.
“What is this about cutting Zsaana off from the Grand Symphony?” he asked, halfway through their lesson.
The young man shook his head, his hair swinging from side to side. It had lengthened since he had been here, yet still could not signal any emotion. Methiemum were very odd. “I don’t remember much, except it was buried deep under the rest of the music. It was hard to change the notes.”
“I am not surprised. The deeper the music in the main fractal of the Grand Symphony, the harder the notes are to change. They are being more fundamental to the nature of the universe.” He looked his apprentice over. Thank the ancestors he had learned to control the worst of his anxiety. Origon supposed the twins had helped with that, as strange as the pair was. He had been all over Methiem, and had never seen a culture with quite their combination of speech and clothing patterns. It was similar to those who lived in the Ofir archipelago, but subtly different. The inconsistency was like a feather going the wrong direction. It constantly irritated him, and he knew it was tied in with the rest of the strangeness surrounding the twins. A question for later. Not much later, but later.
“Have you done this any other time you can remember? Against anything inanimate?” If he could track down Sam’s strange talent, they might be able to put it use when infiltrating the prison. He would admit one could loosely group information transfer of any type as Communication, but there were limits to the range of houses of the maji. It was why maji could only hear the music of one house, or two, in his rare case, but no more.
Sam chewed his lip, and the Nether translated it as thoughtful, but maybe also reticent. “I…don’t think I’ve done it to anything inanimate, though I don’t see why it wouldn’t work, if I can find the notes, right?” Sam looked up to him.
“Keep it in mind,” Origon told him. “It may be useful.”
* * *
It was several darkenings later when Hand Dancer found them in the common room of the hostel. Origon saw his many-fingered hands twitching from across the room. “You have information?”
Rilan cut off her conversation with Caroom. Sam, who was sitting with the twins at an adjacent table, leaned over. Hand Dancer plopped into a chair. The recliners had a strange dip near the back, forcing Origon to sit lower than he would have liked. They were suited for Lobath forms.
“That would have been the same day Feldo was attacked,” Rilan said. “It’s got to be the Aridori.”
“They aren’t taking any chances,” Sam said.
“Would you, with a live Aridori?” Rilan shot back, and the young man hunched back, exchanging looks with Enos and Inas. Both twins were expressionless. Origon peered at them. His subconscious was formulating a nasty theory and was nagging him to pay attention, but it was not something he would say without proof, or at least very strong suspicion. Right now it was only a tickling of his feathers.
“The box was headed to the, hmm, lower levels of the prison, as this group guessed,” Caroom said, and Hand Dancer’s fingers signaled agreement.
“Then all we need is confirmation of the prison layout,” Origon said. This was coming together better, and faster, than he could have anticipated. He looked to Rilan. “Unless you remember the layout well enough?”
Rilan waggled a hand, and Origon caught Hand Dancer’s amused gesture. How did the Nether translate their hand motions to the Lobhl? “Not well enough for my comfort,” Rilan said. “It’s been cycles since I’ve been there, and never to the lowest levels.” She looked around. “If we have to, we’ll make do—”
Caroom’s eyes flickered, then shone bright green. “This one will handle this concern. One more day.”
“One more day,” Origon sighed.
* * *
It was only midday, though one couldn’t tell that from the sky, when Caroom limped into the hostel, holding a massive brown hand over their left arm. A thick, greenish substance leaked through their fingers, but they waved away Hand Dancer and Inas and crossed to the tables the group had appropriated at the hostel.
“It is, hmm, worse than it looks,” they rumbled.
Rilan sniffed the air. “It smells like something’s burning.” She batted away Caroom’s hand, revealing a crater in the Benish’s arm, still smoking, green fluid slowly bubbling out. “Are those burn marks? Did you get shot, Caroom?” White and olive surrounded her hands, and she made a smoothing motion around the hard, blackened flesh. Origon knew she was terribl
e at healing, but she had many ways of soothing pain away.
Caroom grunted, but their eyes glittered in thanks. “This one has a map of the prison,” they said. Origon sat forward. Was this the last piece?
The Benish produced a rolled up sheet of parchment with their good hand, from inside the flimsy tan vest they wore. Benish skin was plenty thick enough to resist most temperatures, as evidenced by the crater in their arm.
“This group may, hmmm, want to enact any plan these ones have sooner, rather than later.” Their eyes scanned the rest. “This one might have to leave Gloomlight, hmmm, quickly, if certain things are discovered.” They raised their injured arm.
Rilan closed her eyes. “If we were not already so deep in illegal action, I would ask what happened to you.”
Origon grinned at Rilan. Just like old times.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The Break-in
-The Symphony of the House of Communication is built on the theme of a wind instrument, like the currents of air those maji can manipulate. The house is not restricted to manipulation of nature, but also with how one person connects to another. Often, the councilor for the House of Communication is also the Speaker for the Council of the Maji.
Treatise on the six houses, approx. 224 B.A.W.
That night, the seven of them gathered outside the stone hulk of Gloomlight prison. On the way, Origon and Hand Dancer muted the legato strains coming from the orange lights at each intersection, casting their party into a traveling patch of darkness. Several streets later, they took their notes back and let the light shine again. It made their progress slow, and Origon felt his notes stretched thin by holding a sustained change so long, but they were also much harder to identify.
“The fence first,” Rilan directed, pointing to the massive vertical resin planks barring their way. “See the brown aura? From the House of Potential. There could be a System to shock you, or a complex piece composed to drain your stamina. We should have brought Inas’ Sureriaj friend to help—what was his name? Rey? Who’s his mentor, anyway?”
“Majus Kheena, I believe,” Origon said, scanning the roof. No figures watching them yet, but it would only be a matter of time. Rilan stared at him as if it was a surprise for him to remember another majus’ name. “Though Kheena is Sathssn,” he continued. “Alerting him to our operation might not be advisable.”
Rilan tsked. “Just because he’s Sathssn, that doesn’t mean he’s Life Coalition. I think Kheena’s from the Southern Coalition. Doesn’t even follow the Cult of Form, if I remember. Really, Ori.”
Origon let his crest flatten in chagrin. “Of course. Merely taking precautions.” There was too much developing all at once, for his taste. He turned to his apprentice. They should focus on getting into the prison rather than idle speculation.
“Now, Sam, as we practiced,” he said. Creating the type of camouflage they wanted was not a simple matter.
He moved through the Symphony, picking out phrases defining the air around them. It was for once not raining, though he heard the far off strains that told of another storm coming, in another darkening. They would need to work quickly.
He heard other changes as Sam began his section of the composition. Origon placed his notes in the refrain, adding solidity to the phrase, then switched to the Symphony of Power, doling out a few more precious notes to slow the andante temperature to a legato. Uncontrolled changes to the air tended to heat the surrounding, unless a majus used the House of Power to negate the effect. Above their group a dome shimmered into view, reflecting the dark of the cobblestones up and around them. Enos lit a small lantern, half covered to hide the light.
Hearing a set of intricate chords, Origon squinted at Sam. The young man was doing something different, deeper in the music, and he couldn’t quite follow it, but the other half of the dome was tighter-woven than his, the notes all in time. Origon felt his crest flatten and scowled. He couldn’t help it if his potential had been damaged by what the space capsule took from him. It would take many more cycles to get back to his old potential. For now he would have to content with a fledgling majus showing him up.
Rilan and Enos were moving among them as he and Sam worked, touching each one in a flare of white. Enos kept to the apprentices, her lantern illuminating their faces, Rilan to the maji. When she touched him, he felt his boots settle differently around his feet. He would make less sound as he moved.
Caroom and Inas were already working on the fence, half-spheres of green spitting sparks as they dug into the brown aura. It would indeed have been easier with one from the House of Potential. However, the light show was contained under the dome he and Sam had created.
“It is not yet shorted out,” Caroom rumbled. They forced a hand forward again, and the brown flickered, then grew back.
This time when Caroom and Inas pushed forward, the aura dimmed, then died within the outline Hand Dancer had described.
“That will do,” Caroom said, and wove their fingers between the thick planks, made of some resin the Lobath produced. When they pulled, green and tan grew from their fingers, pushing the material back. Something creaked in Caroom’s back, and they emitted a deep grunt. The resin flowed, for just a moment, resetting in a passage through the fence.
“Inside, but be careful of the plants,” Rilan said, and ducked through the hole in the fence. When Origon came through after her, he saw the field of low growth, shadows in the dark. Sam pressed in behind him, then the others. He could feel his apprentice shivering. Now was not the time for a panic attack. He hoped the young man could hold it off.
Inas took a step forward, but Rilan threw a hand out to stop him. “The bulbs on top are filled with spores. They will explode if you touch them. The spores fluoresce and will give us away, even with Ori’s bubble.” Origon looked up to make sure the opaque reflecting bubble was still refracting the ground rather than their figures. It had traveled with them, his notes dragging the melody along, but the diversion would not stand up to heavy scrutiny.
Hand Dancer signed, but Rilan shook her head and the Lobhl’s fingers stilled.
“Enos and I will have to do this. The spores are also toxic. Even if they didn’t give us away, they could put us to sleep if enough of them touched our skin.” She suited actions to words, hands out in front, white and olive green spreading in a wave before her, the plants bending out of the way. She whispered to Enos, gesturing, but her apprentice shook her head, as if unclear. Then, with a start, she leaned in to what Rilan was doing, and in a moment, a wave of white flowed from her, too.
Origon followed them, stepping carefully through the plants, now hanging limp and deflated in the light from Enos’ lantern. He heard rustling behind him, as the others came after.
The wall of the prison loomed in front of them, stones fitted together with almost no space between. Origon felt the camouflaging bubble around them press into the surface. He adjusted the placement of his notes, melding the low rhythm of the air to the flat slope of the wall. He heard an echo of what he did. Sam was next to him, watch in hand, his eyes closed. “Steady, boy,” he said.
Sam nodded. “I’m okay for now. The Symphony helps.” He was breathing too fast, and Origon had to hope he could stave off the panic. They did not have time for error.
Caroom and Inas were at the wall, the Benish already pulling a block out, the green of the House of Strength imbuing their arms with great vigor. Th
e small amount of mortar between blocks, permeated with green and tan, crumbled, and Inas, spirals of green running from his fingers, funneled the extra material away.
The block came away, and Caroom started on the next one, but a surge of orange and brown flashed from deep in the wall and Caroom shook, falling backward. Origon and Rilan tried to slow the wide Benish’s descent. He had forgotten how solid the species was.
“It drained his strength,” Inas said, his voice higher than normal. “I can try again, but I do not know if—” He trailed off as Hand Dancer pushed forward.
Origon looked to Rilan, to Sam, to Enos. “Is she—?”
Hand Dancer spasmed again, then straightened. In any other species, Origon would have expected a scream or even a grunt of pain, of acknowledgement. Eerily silent, Hand Dancer raised her hands. They shook, and the Nether gave him no translation. White and olive emerged from the backs of Rilan’s hands like drops of sweat.
Hand Dancer shook again, and her fingers moved, this time with purpose. The ghostly echoes chimed in Origon’s head and he released a breath he had not been aware of holding.
“Let me see.” Origon pressed in, between Caroom, pushing themself up from the ground, and Hand Dancer, dazed. He peered into the pitch black hole, a rectangle wider than his shoulders. If they could get past this barrier, they could break through to the prison. There couldn’t be any more traps. It had taken a concerted effort by seven maji to get this far. He listened, his crest brushing the stones as it flexed up and down. The music was faint, sotto voce. It was another disguising mechanism, to make the System harder to defeat. He reached for the music, trying to decode it. Parts were likely of the House of Potential, cementing the music into the System by making the measures permanent and unfading.