Unwrapped Sky

by Rjurik Davidson

  Eventually, the carriage came to a halt in front of one of the larger canals where a finely constructed gondola stood with a small table set in it. A blue-uniformed boatman with a long oar stood in the rear of the gondola.

  Dressed in black, looking all the more for it like a small gorilla, Tonio opened the door for them and they stepped over a small gangplank onto the gondola.

  “Dinner,” said Boris self-evidently.

  The boatman rowed them off and they passed softly over the water. They passed under small bridges, which spanned the canals that traversed the park. Compared with Caeli-Amur, the park had an eerie serenity, which disturbed Boris. So used to factories and smoke, he found the brooding trees and the sweet scent of pollen to be alien. Rumors had been circulating that ghosts lurked in these parks, just as they haunted Caeli-Amur’s Ancient Forum. These specters had been prophesying doom from the dark shadows of the trees or the burial mounds. Despite these stories, or perhaps because of them, the park was a favorite of the ladies of Caeli-Amur. Perhaps they desired a thrill that was otherwise so often denied them.

  “Won’t you say something?” Boris’s voice tightened as he spoke.

  “You think this impresses me?”

  “I’m not trying to buy your affection. I’m trying to create an, I’m trying to, you know what I mean.”

  “Look at you and look at me,” she said derisively.

  Boris took his flask out from his suit then, unscrewed the lid, and took a swig in front of her. Hot-wine burned his lips, the way he liked it. His voice was more strident now. “You’re just a scared lost thing; you’re a captured thing. There’s no way out for you. I’m your only hope.”

  She curled her beautiful lip in scorn. “That’s what it always comes down to, doesn’t it? It always comes down to power, or lack of it. But you can’t control everything, you know. Things slip away; things refuse to be controlled.”

  He looked at her frostily. “You would know, if anyone did.”

  They sat in silence then, and Boris felt the hot-wine creep up on him. The boat floated between a knot of densely clustered burial mounds, on which a group of statues stood imperiously. Sculpted in the image of long-dead heroes, they seemed to look down upon him from a different, more powerful age. He fancied that there was movement above, but when he fixed his eyes on the statues, there was nothing.

  Eventually he said, “Each of us is surrounded by shadows of our own making. And you can never escape your own shadow, can you?”

  She brushed the hair from her face. Her lip was no longer curled. She spoke softly, but both voices spoke in unison, warm and powerful. “You aren’t like the others. They’re only interested in sating their lust,” she said. “They’re full of anger and desire. But you: you are sad somehow. I can see it. I can feel it.”

  Boris looked away, his face troubled.

  “There was someone,” she said.

  “I would never treat you like that,” he said. “I would never use you for my animal desires. What can I do?” he said.

  “Nothing,” she said. “Things are just the way they are.”

  Boris could not think of a response, though he searched for one. Eventually he settled for, “We can change things, perhaps, if you trust me.”

  But Paxaea simply stared at the lake onto which the boatman was now rowing them. Not long after, he turned them around and took them back to the carriage.

  When they returned to the city, the beauty of the park long behind them, he walked her back to her room in the Opera. As Paxaea entered the room, she left the door swinging open. Boris stood at the door awkwardly.

  She sat on the bed and looked back at him. “Close the door.”

  Boris closed it behind him and followed her to her bed, hidden by cushions covered with delicate lacework and with mirrors sewn into the fabric. Warm and inviting, it was the kind of bed that one yearned to sink into.

  Mechanically Paxaea reached up, unbuttoned Boris’s coat. He felt the urge for her then, and reached out and touched her face, the skin so smooth and soft. He pushed her down onto the bed and she didn’t resist. Her eyes, large and magnificent, like those of a god, stared out disinterestedly. In some way he was afraid of them, now that he was so close. He looked down at the full lips.

  He froze. “Not like this.”

  “What?”

  “No,” he said to himself. “No…”

  Boris looked away from her and his eyes lost their focus. He looked out into the distance, into a world that no longer existed. Images of his long-dead wife, Remmie, came to him, of how they had first met, circling each other in the factory district, quick glances taken and noticed, neither of them with the courage to speak to the other, until finally one day he turned a corner on the way home from the Tram Factory and she was there, standing outside the mill, her eyes alight beneath the dirt smudged across her face.

  As he thought of Remmie, he became aware of a soft sound beneath him. He looked down to see Paxaea with hands over her face. As she cried, her voice keened in two tones at once: a low hum and a high wail.

  Boris turned from her and let himself out of the room quietly. As he passed along the Opera corridors he took another swig of hot-wine.

  Instead of home, Boris returned to his office, where he touched the scrying ball. An image of the seditionist’s hideout superimposed itself onto his room. He watched as the shapes moved around, congregated in little discussion groups. He was now filled with hatred for those subversives. They were dreamers and he would smash their dreams.

  Their discussions slowly diminished to whispers in the night until they were quiet. But in the background Boris could see two of them coupling quietly; in the darkness it looked like one dark creature changing shape, struggling to transform itself. Eventually that, too, finished and Boris stared alone into the dark.

  SEVENTEEN

  At the evening meeting the debate raged, seditionists standing and yelling over one another. Maximilian ran his hands through his curly hair and looked on in frustration. With each day the tensions had grown until now members of the group yelled recriminations at one another. The influx of new agitators had increased these tensions, the newcomers knowing little about the history of the group or the competing philosophies.

  “A major demonstration on Aya’s Day!” yelled Maximilian over the ruckus, which quieted. A month away, Aya’s Day was a traditional day of festivities, when pranks were not only ubiquitous but encouraged among the citizens. Children fooled their parents, workers played jokes on their employers. It was a day when citizens thumbed their noses at authority. Even the Houses were fair game. But this would be a thumbing of noses of unsuspected seriousness.

  “Demonstrations?” said Ejan, standing on the other side of the braziers. “We already know how those are dealt with: The House thaumaturgists strike against any public demonstration.”

  Maximilian seized the momentary quiet to speak. “If it is large enough, if we build enough momentum, if we have some defenses against them, then people will come out. There have been strikes already. They are yearning for common action. Of course, we must seek the Collegia’s support.”

  A young woman called Aceline, whose short-cropped black hair and bone-white skin made her look like a child, stepped forward, “We could publicize it in the broadsheet, make posters, graffiti the walls.” She was one of the leaders of the recently joined A Call to Arms group, a collection of seditionist-artists who had brought their printing press, replacing the old and constantly breaking machine that had been used to print up Kamron’s pamphlets. Now there were daily debates about what should be written, who should control its content. Their own policy had been to create and distribute seditionist art. In their minds, this art—avant-gardist poems, symbolist posters produced by lithograph—would help people to see their place in the House system anew and reflect upon its oppressive nature. Their paper was filled with vorticist and cubist images of machinelike forms bursting through into a changed future. Aceline herself was a woman w
hose appearance belied her erudition. Beneath her calmly and patient words lay a deep thinker.

  Ejan responded resolutely: “Joining forces with the Collegia will only compromise us. They’re little better than criminal networks. Better if we could strike against the Houses physically. Build an army, a trained force, capable of fighting the Houses. Strike and then melt away before they can respond. It’s time to jam their levers. To show them that we won’t let their machine operate. We will become myths, legends, symbols that rouse the people.” In recent weeks, Ejan had built his group into a closed unit: tight, disciplined, ruthless.

  Kamron stepped forward from the darkness from where he had been observing events. He spoke for the first time since he had been deposed and the Veterans had lost their authority. “Without a way of neutralizing the Houses’ thaumaturgists, we’ll never achieve anything. And even if we did, what would Varenis do? The Directorate of Varenis would not allow a free Caeli-Amur. No, they would march from the north with their legions. Even worse, what if we roused the Sortileges? Who among us would face a Sortilege?”

  There was silence as the seditionists weighed his words. The Sortileges—the most powerful thaumaturgists in the world, sitting up in the twelve towers of Varenis.

  “Varenis will leave us alone and the Sortileges—who has even seen them?” said Maximilian. “Caeli-Amur has always been its own city-state. You are doing nothing but holding us back.”

  Several jeers were directed toward the old seditionist. Weariness of Kamron’s timidity had turned to antagonism. No longer was he a revered figure, but rather a somewhat pathetic old man. Max was sad to see Kamron’s fall, and surprised at the speed with which the group marginalized their former leader. Kamron still deserved some respect, and yet, Max, too, found the old man’s arguments vexatious.

  Ejan interjected. “It’s time for you to liberate yourself, Kamron, from the oppressive duty of taking action. It’s time for you to leave.”

  There were a few cheers. Others remained silent. Kamron looked on fearfully. Was the old man being banished?

  “All those who think Kamron should be exiled from the group?” Ejan’s voice rang out, strong and metallic.

  As Maximilian saw a sea of hands raised, he refrained from raising his own. In his view, Kamron was only holding the group back. Banishing him would help the group to carry out its activities. Kamron was nothing but a ball chained to their legs. Covered once more by a blanket of guilt, Max raised his hand and pursed his lips. The vast majority had raised their hands. When Ejan called for those opposed to the banishment, even the Veterans failed to raise their hands. They had been cowed into submission. Something had broken in the seditionist group, and now it was like a wild horse, galloping on its own course. A wave of concern rose in Maximilian’s chest. He would have to try to rein it in and guide it.

  Maximilian called out: “Ejan can make weapons for defense. I shall search for the thaumaturgical power to defend us. And meanwhile, we plan a demonstration on Aya’s Day. We arrange a meeting with the Collegia to convince them to take part. It will be our first show of strength, the first of a wave of demonstrations. It will not change the House system by itself. But what a change it would be, to stand freely in the streets and squares. What a challenge it would be. Of course there are risks. Of course we will be scared standing out in the open when for so long we’ve been hiding away. But we will also be exhilarated. The citizens themselves will be emboldened. But before this time, there shall be no preemptive strikes against the Houses. After Aya’s Day, the landscape will have changed.”

  There was an uneasy quiet. Ejan sneered.

  “All those in favor of the path I propose?” Maximilian demanded.

  A sea of hands was raised again. The seditionists were not yet ready to risk Ejan’s plan of violent action.

  Ejan turned on his heel and stormed away. He was not the sort to take kindly to being outmaneuvered. Though Ejan possessed a discipline that Maximilian envied, Ejan was the sort to pursue his own fate, just as he had when he struck his chieftain father, riding off into the wilderness and leaving behind everyone he knew.

  Later, Kamron trudged alone to the exit from the Communal Cavern, a figure warped and bent by thaumaturgy and defeat. The remaining Veterans were too attached to their place in the group; they cleaved to it like children afraid to be left alone. As for Kamron, he would not betray the group to the Houses. The old man didn’t have it in him.

  As Kamron reached the doorway, he stopped and looked back to where Maximilian stood, not far away. “Mark my words,” he said, “this group will be ruined before your very eyes. If it’s not already infiltrated by the Houses, it soon will be.” He turned and shuffled away.

  Maximilian watched him go. He threw off the blanket of guilt. The cause—that was the ultimate law. Individual attachments had to be sacrificed for the good of the cause. He thought of Nkando and all the Nkandos of the world. He acted for them. Sometimes small evils needed to be performed for a greater good. Even as he thought these things, the guilt fell onto him once more. This time he could not throw it off.

  The following day, Maximilian and Kata left the hideout to visit the Xsanthians. They could swim hundreds of fathoms beneath the waters without drawing a breath. He would convince the fish-men to help him reach the Sunken City. As he and Kata stepped out into the brilliant light, he squinted and turned his head away from the glaring sun. Sometimes, in recent weeks, humid summer clouds had rolled over the city, only to move on again without unloading themselves. On the street, Max and Kata heard citizens: “This summer—when will it rain?” or “You could fry eggs in this sun!”

  Max was impressed with Kata, who had studied Caeli-Enas and possessed a steely intelligence and a determination to bolster her knowledge. He wasn’t sure if she dreamed of a city of pure community, as he did, but she was the kind of recruit they needed: the sort who would break barriers, the sort that would not be deterred by failure, who was emotionally unattached, and so unlikely to have conflicting loyalties. He sensed that they had much in common.

  They passed through Market Square to the stairs, where the puppet-seller played out the story of Domina and Cassia, a pantomime of violence between two sisters. The story was well known to Caeli-Amur’s people. Living always in harmony, the two sisters had shared everything in their lives. But when Dominia had been given an opulent gift by a suitor, she had initially concealed it, and she agonized about how to tell her sister. When Cassia discovered the gift her envy broke into violence. The puppets jiggled and struck out at each other clumsily.

  “There,” the puppeteer said, Cassia lashing her sister. “That’s for your betrayal.” Dominia struck back. “That’s for your lack of trust.” A group of children sat around the puppeteer laughing and clapping their hands.

  As they reached the piers, great lines of Xsanthians were unloading goods from one of Marin’s new class of steamer. Unlike the majority of great hulking ships, these new boats combined the sleekness of Marin’s fleet of cutters, with the new steam technology. Instead of great wheels attached to the sides of the boat, these had a single powerful one at the rear.

  Halfway along the pier a Xsanthian sat desolately, one of its scaled arms wrapped in a seaweed poultice. Beyond it, before the streamlined steamer, a group of blue uniformed Marin guards joked, long tridents in their hands.

  Warily, Max and Kata approached the Xsanthian. “Santhor?” asked Max.

  The Xsanthian looked up, “On the boat. They’re having trouble with the leviathan.”

  As one of the Xsanthians stepped from the gangplank, he dropped one of the small caskets he was carrying. The lid broke open and a branch of a water-crystal spilled onto the pier. As it struck the wood, the crystal broke and in an instant its brilliant orange and yellow faded to a dead gray. Like bloodstone, the crystals had powerful thaumaturgical properties, but unlike bloodstone, which was inanimate, the crystals lived and grew. Once cut from their seabeds, the slightest disturbance would kill them and rob
them of their powers. Max sighed as he saw the power die out in the crystal.

  One of the guards stepped forward and struck the Xsanthian with a trident. “You fool! The thaumaturgists are unhappy enough without you destroying the crystals.”

  The Xsanthian fell to its knees and the rest of the guards took to beating it. The Xsanthian collapsed onto the pier, great webbed hands wrapped protectively around its enormous fish head.

  Max and Kata took this opportunity to slip onto the ship and seconds later they descended into the hold, where what they saw stopped them in their tracks.

  In a pool in the center of the hold thrashed a half-submerged creature. It’s gray slippery body seemed circular, with many tentacles: some were thick and powerful and used for swimming; others were long and thin with stingers at their tips. Beneath the net that restrained it, a hundred and more disturbing plate-shaped eyes whirled and turned, each one independent, each one filled with a baleful intelligence. Max backed away a step and heard Kata beside him give out a little groan of horror. A long thin tentacle with a leaflike cluster of horrific looking burgundy nodules at its tip, had broken through the net. It whipped though the air and struck one of several Xsanthians scampering around the pool and attempting to subdue the creature with a second net. The Xsanthian staggered toward Max and Kata as the tentacle whipped around dangerously. Over its shoulder a red welt had risen. It looked up at Max and Kata as it fell to its knees. A gurgle came from its throat as two other Xsanthians seized their injured colleague and pulled him up onto the deck. As they passed, Max could hear the Xsanthian’s ragged and struggling breath.