The picture flickered for a second and shrank in size back into the scrying ball, until it became a point of light and disappeared.
Boris was filled with all the grief and horror of his life, like a blocked sewer that spewed back its contents. He looked back on the mistakes he had made. He thought of his long-dead wife, Remmie. What would she have said? Her heart would have broken, to see what he had become. Why, all those years ago, did she have to die? That had been the moment everything went wrong, when he had lost his family. If she had been there, beside him, she would have helped him choose a better path. She would have cocked her head, the way she did when she told him off, and said, “Boris!” That’s all she had to say, and he would have seen the implications, known the steps to take. Now there was no chance of making things right—he had done too much damage. There was no hope for him, but he would do what little he could. Remmie was dead, but Saidra was still alive. He needed to see her, one last time, though he knew that she would spit in his face, strike out at him with words if not fists. He still had hope for the last member of his family.
He looked up to see Paxaea standing at the doors to his private quarters.
“Paxaea,” he said.
“Director Autec.”
He stumbled toward her. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He repeated the words again and again, mechanically. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” He was crying now, and his hand was on her arm. But she stood upright and impassive. “It was always like this with you. You never opened yourself to me. You were always impossible to penetrate, like a labyrinth.”
“You cannot force someone to open herself to you.”
He nodded, crying. “How else … how else?”
“Some things are just beyond the reach of some of us.”
Boris felt nauseated now. All around shadows were shifting and swirling. He could see the Other Side clearly, the dark lands superimposed onto the one in which he sat, the death lands, where as an Elo-Talern he would spend half his pitiful existence. In the shadows of that world Paxaea now seemed brighter and more alive than ever, like an emblem of a domain where things had meaning. She gleamed now, and from his place in the dark, she seemed farther away than ever.
He sobbed. “I’m sorry.” He spoke the words that released the torc from her neck—“Taritia-atas”—and reached up, unfastening it, grasping it in his hand.
Still she stood motionless, as if she were weighing her possibilities.
Boris let go of her arm and took a step backwards.
Paxaea threw back her arms and her head, as if stretching. She took several steps and looked at the door into the office.
A fierce inhuman look came over the Siren’s face. Intensity burned in her eyes, like those of a wild animal. She opened her mouth wide, and the jaws dropped lower than any human’s. Like a great cat’s mouth it gaped. She screamed: two powerful notes vibrating together. The windows to the balcony shattered; the door bust from its hinges. Cracks ran like spiderwebs down the walls.
Boris was thrown back and everything went black.
When he came to, Boris lay on the floor still stunned by the force of Paxaea’s cry. He blinked rapidly, though everything seemed silent. Something ran down his throat and there was a metallic taste in his mouth. Above him a deep lightning-shaped crack ran across the ceiling.
Boris sat up and surveyed his empty room. Something itched on his upper lip. He touched it and pulled his hand away: his nose was bleeding. He sat there, alone, holding his nose as blood trickled onto his hand.
He stood unsteadily, walked to his desk and froze. The Prism of Alerion was gone. So, too, were the copies of the maps Caeli-Amur’s subterranean tunnels. He put his hands on his head. He could scarcely breathe. He had hoped to give the prism to Saidra. But now Paxaea had taken it, and the maps also—a final betrayal.
There was no time to lose. There was nothing to do but to find the original maps in his drawers. He examined them once more, outlining the hidden ways beneath the city. He threw on a cloak, pulled up the hood, and took an elevator deep into the ground. From there a passageway led into a series of caves, tunnels, some sandy steps leading up, and he emerged, finally on the side of one of the cliffs, not far from Via Persine.
Dawn was breaking now over the water, and Boris approached the Opera. The city was as he imagined it. A cool wind blew through the streets, which were filled with refuse. Many of the shops along Via Persine had been looted. Blue-suited workers lay drunk in the gutters. A band of seditionists marched up the street, kicking the drunks in the back. “Get up. Get up.” A number of them entered the cellar of a nearby bar and began smashing flagons. A drunk in the gutter cackled. He was missing teeth.
When Boris came to Market Square, he pulled the cloak over his head. He passed through the Opera’s entry hall, which had been turned into a makeshift armory. The seditionists seemed to be taking over the building, and they scurried around like rodents building a nest. Above, the globes of light were bouncing up and down in excitement.
He passed by unchecked. There seemed no order to any of it. He considered seeing if Paxaea was in her room, collecting her valuables. But he had other priorities. He arrived at Saidra’s room and stood before the closed door, trembling. The corridor here was gloomy. Look at yourself, he thought. Trembling like a frightened animal, before you meet your own daughter. You gave her life, and yet she has so much control over you. He dreaded knocking on the door, dreaded facing Saidra’s scorn.
He knocked. The door swung open.
“Father! Father, thank providence you’re alive.” Saidra’s voice shivered. “Come in.” She turned back to a half-packed case, clothes folded on the bed next to it. “There’s talk of storming the House complexes. I was worried.” She turned back to him and gave a little start. “Father. Oh, what has happened to you?”
Boris hung his head. The kindness in her words shocked him. He felt like crying. “I’m ill.”
“You’re—what are those blue lines spreading up your face? And your limbs: it’s almost like you’re … you’re taller. And gaunter.” When Boris didn’t answer, she added: “Come in. Come in. They’re evicting us. They’ve turned this place into a seditionist center. Father, are you … flickering?”
Boris took the keys to his apartment from his pocket. “Here are the keys to the house. You should stay there. I must return to the Technis Palace. My destiny lies there.”
“No, Father. The Houses are finished. You must escape.”
“Saidra, there is no hope for the seditionists. Varenis may well be mobilizing as we speak. If not now, they will eventually. The Sortileges are coming. When they arrive, they will integrate Caeli-Amur into the Empire.”
“Oh.” Saidra’s eyes were wide as she absorbed this information.
“Yes.” Boris sat on the side of the bed, next to the case. “Saidra, I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry I failed as a father. I, I wish I could say it better, stronger, but I’m just a tramworker really. There’s so much I’d like to—”
Saidra was crying now, and she stepped forward, as if she wanted to touch him. But they had never been a close family, and touching was not something they had ever done. “No, it’s I who should be sorry.”
“I’m the father,” said Boris.
“Come back to the house with me. We’ll get you healthy again.”
Boris took the maps from his bag. “These are maps for the tunnels beneath the city. They will help you escape, if you need to. Otherwise, you may want to give them to the seditionists. There’s a man called Ejan—perhaps he can use them. There has been too much bloodshed.”
“But, Father, you’ll return. I’ll see you again?”
“Oh, sometime.” Boris smiled weakly.
“When?” demanded Saidra.
“As soon as I can set some final things straight.”
“Promise me!”
Boris smiled again, and tears were in his eyes. “I promise.” It wasn’t the first lie he’d told.
The walk back to the Technis Palace was not difficult. Boris knew all his roads led into his office. The dungeons were now emptied and the corridors in the palace itself were chaotic. House agents ran panicked, to and fro. Others seemed to be looting the place, for their arms were filled with sculptures or lamps or coins or other assorted paraphernalia.
Boris shivered feverishly. He felt sweat run down his back, even though cool air blew through the corridors. As he stood surveying the wreckage of his office, which had now apparently been ransacked, Armand entered through the broken doorway. He looked around at the cracks, the broken glass. “Director—” His voice seemed to come from far away. “Director, the thaumaturgists…”
Boris nodded. He stood up and walked to the small table in his room where his fruit and dried meats lay. He took the knife, long and sharp and carried it with him to the balcony. There he surveyed the city from the balcony again.
Armand stood behind him. “You’ve failed.”
“We’ve all failed,” said Boris. “Though perhaps I have had some final moments of success. You see, the means are more important than the goal, Armand. The everyday actions: those are the important moments.”
Armand stared blankly. “What will we do now? Wait?”
“The Directorate of Varenis will send its legions. They will descend on the city like carrion-birds on dying prey.”
Armand placed his hand on his shoulder. “Things won’t be saved, though. Things can’t go back to normal, can they?”
“Nothing ever will.” Boris turned to face Armand.
At the sight of him, Armand took a step backwards. Horror filled his eyes, which quickly roved over Boris. Boris knew that the change was coming over him quickly now. The arteries and veins in his entire body seemed to burn, and he knew the uncanny blueness ran through them.
“Director, why do you have that knife in your hand? Do you fear for your life?” Armand asked.
“I fear for myself.”
“Director, you don’t look well. Director, you … Shall I call the physicians?”
“Send them in an hour.”
Armand nodded. He spoke, but there was no conviction in his voice. “You’ll be all right, Director. You’ll make it through. We all will. Change is a lot harder than anyone can imagine.”
When he did not answer, Armand walked away. For the first time, Boris had seen fear in the other man’s eyes.
After Armand left, Boris again looked out over the city, which to him had almost worn itself out like an ancient machine. He looked out over the geographies of their lives: the port, where the Xsanthians led their collared lives; the Opera, with its Sirens in rooms with barred windows; the factories where the workers struggled and ground out their lives amid the smoke and soot; the cliff-top cafes of Via Gracchia, where philosopher-assassins lounged like dispossessed artists. At least there was life out there, something moving, something changing. He could hear the laughter and the music of the seditionists floating across the air. There was life out there. But here?
Boris clasped the knife tightly. Without hesitation, he dragged it across his throat, cutting deep to the bone.
FORTY-SEVEN
The day after the battle, the House doors remained closed. Kata and Dexion remained behind the barricades, watching the motley collection of seditionists and citizens as they set up camp or drifted through. Nearby houses had been commandeered as organizing loci: seditionists and citizens slept in dark rooms filled with beds; kitchens were turned over to the cooking of tomato and potato soup. Philosopher-assassins—gratificationists, matriarchists, Cajiuns, apocalyptics—drifted through, watching and talking. Ejan spent his time moving between the barricades and the Opera House, which was designated the logistical center for the city. A council had been set up to coordinate the major decisions and would meet that evening, though Kata avoided any participation. She did not deserve to play a part. For her, now, was the role of foot soldier. So she remained on the barricades, watching and waiting, under the pregnant sky. Still the air was humid and hot, and many sought out the shade, though there they found no relief.
In the afternoon, as Kata and Dexion lay on their back looking at the moody sky, a cry went up. They scrambled to the top of the barricades, weapons drawn. The Technis Complex’s portcullis rose smoothly, boomed into place at its zenith. Behind, huge iron gates creaked open and the seditionists on the barricades tensed. Bolt-throwers were aimed, bottles filled with oil held in hand. Kata held her knives in her hands. Next to her, Dexion shifted his massive bulk, a great axe in one hand, a hammer in another.
“So this is it,” said Dexion.
Something moved in the darkness beneath the arched gateway. Seditionists shifted nervously. Again a flitter of movement. Kata noticed that she was holding her breath. Her exhalation seemed loud enough for those around to hear.
A tall suited figure emerged from the darkness, followed by another. They came, one by one, unorganized, as if they were just a collection of refugees.
“Thaumaturgists!” someone said.
“Strike now!” a voice shouted.
Bodies shifted once more, readying themselves to unleash their weapons.
“Wait!” Ejan stood on the barricade and turned his back to the thaumaturgists, with no concern for his own safety. He held his hands up to stop the seditionists from attacking.
Yet more thaumaturgists wandered into the square. There was no urgency to their actions. Rather, they appeared to look out at the seditionists, perched behind their barricades, with curiosity.
Ejan turned and stepped down the barricades.
“He’ll die,” said Kata.
“Watch,” said Dexion.
Ejan approached the first figure, a great round man with a bald head. The thaumaturgist’s irises were as white as his beard, giving him an alien, inscrutable appearance. They exchanged a few words with the man. He turned and was taking several steps toward the barricades, calling out in a steely voice. “The thaumaturgists will work no longer for the Houses.”
A ripple rushed through the barricades, but no one cheered. The world had been turned upside down.
Following the thaumaturgists, a straggle of figures had emerged from the House Technis Complex. The bearded and the broken, many of them insane—they hobbled out, their clothes gray from the hours spent underground. Like rats from a flooded sewer they ventured forth. A man with a withered arm keened quietly. A young woman, perhaps no more than a teenager, held on to her rags as if they were her most precious possessions. Hundreds of them there were, each one as wretched as the others.
Kata rushed among the prisoners. Where was Maximilian? She searched the faces: a toothless man, a young gaunt woman, someone—was it man or woman?—scratching obsessively at their hair. A face she recognised: Aceline.
Aceline stared at Kata blankly.
“Where’s Maximilian?” asked Kata.
Aceline staggered on, her eyes haunted.
Kata searched in vain. When she returned to the defensive side of the barricade, Aceline had sat down, her face drawn. Aceline stared glassily at the ground. “It’s confusion in there. The House is disorganized. No one seems to know what’s happening. I think that’s the only reason we got out—there was no one to lock us up again. We hid in the gardens for a while, until we saw the thaumaturgists open the gates.”
“They’re finished then.” The idea seemed impossible to Kata. She spoke like a child uttering new words for the first time. If only Maximilian were here to see it, she thought.
“They won’t be finished until the building is razed. They’ll hold on as long as they can, hoping to rebuild themselves, to strike back.” Rikard sat on the top of the barricades nearby. He swung his legs idly. “Unless we break them now.”
In front of the barricades, Ejan mustered a force of seditionists. When they were ready, he turned to the crowd, vast now behind the barricades. “Now is the time to press the advantage. Now is the time to break the House once and for all.” He tu
rned and the seditionist force charged forward toward the still-open gates.
Kata followed the hundreds who rushed forward, leaving Dexion with Aceline. Perhaps Max was wounded and lost in the Complex’s gardens. Perhaps he was too weak to walk and rested, propped up against one of the Palace’s corridors. Along the roadway the seditionists ran, which cut through the gardens and between the buildings. As Kata hurried, she became aware of guards, dropping to their knees and begging for mercy. She passed them by, unaware of whether the crowd offered them compassion or dispatched them coldly.
Through the vast doors of the palace she ran, armed seditionists before her, into the corridors. Through those labyrinthine passages she searched for Max. Others citizens or seditionists were stripping the place of the few valuables that were left.
She climbed up stairs, through the chaos of the place. She passed along corridors where the corpses of guards or House officials lay sprawled. She moved through wide halls that were divided into hundreds of cubicles. Everywhere she looked for a wandering or wounded figure with curly hair. She passed a huge room filled with great cabinets of files. There a seditionist guard stood. “No one allowed in, Ejan’s orders.”
Finally, Kata came high in the Palace to the vast open office of Director Boris Autec. The glass doors that led to a grand balcony were shattered. Ejan was busy rifling through the drawers, while Rikard examined a scrying ball atop a pillar in one corner.
Sprawled on the balcony lay a corpse and for an instant, Kata’s heart tightened. But it was not Max. She approached the body, which lay sprawled on one side, a knife clutched tightly in its skeletal hands. The corpse was gaunt and cadaverous, its jaws clenched in a deathly rictus. The veins of one side of its face were an unnaturally luminescent blue, as if a spidery hand were reaching beneath the skin to the scalp. Across the throat lay a jagged bloody cut, deep to the bone. The eyes stared blankly into space. Kata recognized those eyes, though she could barely recognize the rest of the corpse, for it had changed so profoundly since she had first met Autec. Then he had been an overweight, stub-nosed former tramworker. Now here was a skeletal thing, gaunt and eldritch. So ends the life of Boris Autec, she thought.
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