Banner of Souls

by Liz Williams

  “Now more than ever, it is dangerous,” the kappa said. “What if someone were to spot you? Besides, the shutters are shielded.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “They’re filled with deflection traceries, to baffle scanners,” Dreams-of-War murmured.

  “Do you think that the Kami might be trying to trace me?”

  Dreams-of-War frowned. “It’s not known what equipment the Kami use, so it’s impossible to protect oneself against it.” Lunae saw her mailed fist contract. “I would prefer it if I knew for certain that they could not tell where you were going. I suspect them of being behind the assassins.”

  “Assassins? But there was only one.” She frowned at Dreams-of-War, but the Martian did not reply.

  “But why? Why would they want me dead? Because of what I am?”

  “I do not know.”

  Lunae pressed her face against the wall of the litter, trying to glean sounds from the world outside. Imagination and memories supplied the lack of vision. She saw remedy-women with baskets of dried snakes and engineered glands; the ancient shopfronts of circuit makers, hands genetically attenuated to perfect the finest details; Malay traders with racks of cheap stimulants. Even after the incident with the Kami, she longed to break from the litter and bolt into the maze of streets. It was so tempting to think that she might alter time, just for a handful of minutes, find a way to step outside and see.

  But Dreams-of-War was right; it was a dangerous situation. And how must an ordinary child feel, confined by parental dictate for weeks, months, years, without Lunae’s own accelerated pace of growth? She thought that it would drive her mad to be such a child, and perhaps this was what happened to most people; that by the time they were fully grown it was already too late, and they were driven crazed by their own lack of control.

  That would explain the demeanor of the Grandmothers, she thought, but Dreams-of-War seemed different. Perpetually irate she might be, but not actually demented. But then, Dreams-of-War’s girlhood seemed to have been relatively free. For a long moment, Lunae envied her, then sighed. No point in rewriting the past, certainly not now, when the future lay before her with all its intricate possibilities.

  The litter lurched along, its bearers stumbling through the streets. Dreams-of-War knocked sharply on the wall.

  “Where are we? Is this Heng Seng?”

  A muffled reply came back. Dreams-of-War leaned back against her seat, apparently satisfied.

  “It won’t be long before we reach the harbor.” She gave Lunae a sharp glance. “Do you feel anything, sense anything?”

  “No. Only confinement,” Lunae muttered. The litter had grown stuffy and hot, filled with the scent of old sweat and dried lacquer.

  Dreams-of-War smiled thinly. “I dislike it, too. I shall be glad when we are out upon the high seas.”

  “There are seas on Mars, aren’t there? Have you sailed on them?”

  “The Small Sea is little in comparison with the oceans of Earth,” Dreams-of-War remarked, giving Lunae the distinct impression that it was an unfortunate thing for a planet to be so wet. Perhaps she was right. Lunae had seen the ancient maps, when Earth possessed a wealth of land.

  Dreams-of-War leaned forward, as if scenting the air. “The harbor. I can smell it.”

  The litter at last jolted to a halt. The shutters slid back, flooding them with sunlight. There was a strange electric sizzle, presumably as the localized weir-wards were switched off. Needing no encouragement, Lunae scrambled down to find herself standing on a dock. A hot salt wind washed around her, redolent with weed and the smell of dead shellfish. Lunae took a deep, uncritical breath. Warm stone baked up through the soles of her boots. Eagerly, she looked about her, seeing the harbor stretching before them. The great junks rocked under the wind, tethered like stormclouds, crimson sails furled. She could hear the creak and ache of wood bowing before the elements: wind, water, sun. She thought of the Grandmothers’ chamber and the twists of driftwood. Had that come from ancient forests, long drowned, or from more recent wrecks? A swift image flickered across the face of her mind: an empty shore, the Grandmothers scuttling sideways along it like a pair of contorted crabs, snatching up a fragment of prow, a tatter of sail...

  The kappa tugged at her hood. “Keep your face hidden!”

  Lunae turned from her reverie to note that Dreams-of-War’s armor had all but vanished, forming a slick sheen across her skin. The kappa melted away into the shadows.

  “Where is she going?”

  “To see if there’s anyone about,” the Martian said grimly.

  The air was suddenly acrid, chemical-tinged, as a freighter sailed up the harbor. A slick of oily water washed up against the wall, leaving a faint gleam in its wake. Behind them, the tumbling towers of the Peak stretched all the way up to the toad-presence of Cloud Terrace. Lunae turned swiftly back to stare out across the harbor to High Kowloon. Dozens of smaller boats rode the waves, anchored in a labyrinthine network that extended halfway across the harbor. Between the boats, she could see columns of rotting stone encrusted with shellfish. The green-black spears of mussels gleamed in the watery light; the pale muscular neck of a clam waved briefly forth before retreating.

  “What are those columns for?”

  “Ruins. This part of the city was high above water once. This is the typhoon shelter,” Dreams-of-War explained. “Our vessel waits beyond.”

  The kappa came bustling back. Dreams-of-War glanced questions at her, but the kappa pursed her lips and shook her head. Dreams-of-War led Lunae down a flight of rickety steps and across the deck of a narrow pontoon. A young girl was banging a mass of writhing tentacles against the harbor wall with rhythmic, precise ferocity. She threw down the pulped mass of octopus, reached into a bucket, drew forth a second, and swung it. There was the sound of soft meat hitting stone, a wet succession of thuds. Lunae swallowed and turned away.

  Before her, women were frying fish in a wok, shredding green fronds of weed, talking in shrill, hissing voices. The bite of chili and hot fat caught at the back of Lunae’s throat, smelling nothing like the bland and delicate foods of Cloud Terrace. She was suddenly ravenous.

  “Can we get something to eat?”

  “Not here. I’ll find food on the boat.”

  Resentfully, Lunae followed her guardian across the deck. No one paid any attention to their passage; it seemed quite usual for strangers to be making their way through other folks’ homes. She badly wanted to stop and look at the strings of charms that hung from the lintels of doorways and portals, at the icons of bronze and glossy wood that stood in every available niche, at the skeins of dried fish, as desiccated and gnarled as leather. But Dreams-of-War marched on like a one-woman army, looking neither right nor left, pausing only to help Lunae along the swaying, tottering ladders that led from boat to boat. Lunae shook off her guardian’s assisting hands, irritated by the assumption that she was a child, needful of help. Dreams-of-War appeared not to notice.

  “Where is our vessel?” Lunae whispered as they crossed the slippery plank between two black-hulled prows.

  Dreams-of-War pointed. “There.”

  The junk lay a little distance from the maze of boats, riding gently on an unseen current. Its sides were weathered ebony and its ruby sails billowed in the wind. A dragon figurehead crested above the waves, eyes bulging, mouth flared wide to display gilded alligator teeth. The ropes that secured its sails snapped and cracked. To Lunae, it was the embodiment of freedom.

  As they reached the last boat of all, a scull skirted the junk’s black hull and veered toward them.

  “For us, I hope,” Dreams-of-War said, shifting restlessly from foot to foot. A woman sat in the prow, dressed from head to foot in ragged red clothes, rowing vigorously.

  “Who is that?”

  “I don’t know. One of the sailors, I assume.”

  “Why is she dressed in red?”

  “It is traditional.”

  The scull edged alongside the tethered boats
and a rope was thrown to secure it. Then the sailor was standing before them. Lunae saw a long face, narrow eyes above a slab of cheekbone, hair scrunched up in a topknot and slicked with something wet. The skin of her face and forearms was covered with tattoos; intricate whorls and spirals, like carved wood beneath the ragged sleeves.

  “Who are you?” Lunae whispered.

  “I am your captain. My name is Ayadatarahime Sek. You may call me ‘Captain.’ ”

  A harsh voice, and a strange accent. Lunae had difficulty in understanding some of the words. Sek grinned, displaying teeth stained black by chewing-nut. Certain of the teeth, like the Martian’s, had been filed into points, or perhaps were implants. Her eyes were a flat darkness. Lunae took an instant dislike to her. She stared ahead, but Sek must have seen the flicker in her eyes, for the captain’s sharp, rotten smile widened.

  “You have had no trouble?” Dreams-of-War asked sharply.

  “There is always trouble. Raiders from the Siberian Islands, from Hakodate. In the Fire Islands, problems all the time with your people.” She nodded toward the kappa, who fluttered her hands. “They delight in putting obstacles in my way. And in the city, bureaucrats all wanting their cut of the harbor revenue, whether or not they are entitled to it. I do not know which is worse.” Sek sounded both self-righteous and aggrieved. Lunae’s dislike deepened, unreasonably.

  “But nothing unusual?” Dreams-of-War persisted.

  “I have seen something of a Dragon-King on this voyage.”

  “A Dragon-King?” Dreams-of-War looked startled.

  “But apart from that, nothing unusual. Get in.”

  Lunae stepped over the side into the scull, which rocked, throwing her forward. Dreams-of-War turned, but it was Sek who caught her. The captain’s hands were like gnarled iron, and they lingered. Lunae pulled away.

  “Be careful,” Dreams-of-War snapped.

  “She’ll learn,” Sek said without rancor, and cast off. The scull skimmed over the greasy water, to rest beneath the great black hull of the junk. Lunae looked up to see the sails rattling in the breeze. A rope ladder was flung forth. Sek swarmed up it and called to Lunae, “Now you. Hold tight; don’t look down.”

  Lunae hesitated.

  “Go on,” Dreams-of-War said. “You won’t fall. And if you do, the kappa and I will catch you.”

  Lunae did as she was told. The ladder was slimy with weed, as though it had been towed underwater, and encrusted with barnacles. She found it difficult to grip, and the rough mouths of the barnacles hurt her hands. She felt weak and ineffectual in front of Sek, who was peering impatiently over the side. To the captain, she was suddenly sure, Lunae was no more than a pampered passenger. She clambered upward, bracing her feet against the sides of the hull.

  Gradually, as she climbed, the air became filled with an unfamiliar sound: a hissing, rushing whisper. At first Lunae thought that this was no more than the movement of the waves against the hull, but as she reached for the rungs of the ladder, she realized that the noise was composed of many voices.

  “The sea, the sea...”

  “Water filled my lungs; I knew nothing more...”

  “The Dragon-Kings took me, swallowed me whole...”

  “Lunae!” The voice was sharp and irritated. Lunae looked down. Dreams-of-War stood with hands on hips, glaring upward. “Why have you paused? Are you afraid?”

  “I can hear voices.”

  “What?”

  “The boat is speaking to her,” Sek spoke softly from above. “She hears the stories of the dead.”

  Dreams-of-War’s mouth opened in surprise. “What?”

  Sek did not answer.

  Lunae began once more to climb, puzzled. Did this boat, then, use haunt-tech? It appeared entirely antique to her: the wooden boards, the crimson sails. Resolutely, she ignored the voices, filing her questions away for later, and soon they faded to nothing more than the murmur of the waves.

  When she reached the top, Sek hauled her onto the deck.

  “Well enough.”

  Lunae looked ruefully at her hands and garments, which were now tinged a faint and gleaming green. She was reminded of Dreams-of-War’s armor, but now she stank of old weed. Dreams-of-War and then the kappa appeared beside her on the deck.

  “We leave now?” Dreams-of-War demanded.

  Sek nodded. “As soon as you are ready. But the girl must go below.”

  Dreams-of-War nodded. “Very well.”

  “I should like to stay on deck,” Lunae ventured, but the kappa protested.

  “No, no, it is not safe; you must do as the captain tells you.”

  Lunae bit back a sharp reply and followed the kappa down the steps to a cabin. Lunae was immediately reminded of the litter: no windows, enclosing walls, and only a faintly glowing lamp on the shelf. She sat down dismally on a nearby bench and folded her hands in her lap, already beginning to plot escape. The kappa sank into a moist bundle beside her.

  CHAPTER 2

  Earth

  Yskatarina stood before the doors of Cloud Terrace, the Animus at her shoulder. It was dusk. The lamps of the city glowed below. The air was filled with the soft wings of moths, brushing against Yskatarina’s arms with a delicacy that she could not feel.

  “They will not let us in,” the Animus whispered.

  Yskatarina smiled. “Of course not. All the weir-wards are up. They suspect something is wrong.” Earlier that day, she had sent a message to the Grandmothers, asking for an audience. She gave an assumed name, not wanting any connection to be made to Nightshade, or Elaki. But the Grandmothers denied her request.

  “We are old, and weary,” Left-Hand quavered, echoed by her sister. “You can have no reason to wish to see us. We live quietly, in seclusion. We intend to remain there.” And then the link was severed with insulting abruptness.

  Yskatarina was not surprised. The Grandmothers’ intelligence network was both extensive and capable. The assassination attempt by the kappa had suggested that, and Yskatarina was certain that her brush with murder could be traced back to the doors of Cloud Terrace. Nothing was secure. However, Yskatarina intended to make sure that the spiders at the heart of the web would spin no more.

  “Do as we discussed,” she said to the Animus.

  The Animus’s mandibles opened to their widest extent, revealing a lensed opening. Yskatarina kept well back, out of the way. The lens slid aside, revealing a flicker of teeth. Then a bolt of cold flame shot from the depths of the Animus’s throat. When it struck the door, the metal melted, dripping into iron lace.

  “Good,” Yskatarina said with satisfaction. When the molten metal flow stopped, she stepped through.

  The hallway was empty, but Yskatarina did not immediately proceed. She stood still and raised her hand before her. A host of stinging things burst from the wall and swarmed up her arm. If it had been flesh, she knew, they would have stripped it from her bones, but they could make no headway on the armored steel. Again, that cold fire, enveloping her arm for the briefest moment, and then the swarm was nothing more than a coating of ash.

  “There will be other safeguards,” the Animus said.

  “Then go before me.”

  When they reached the end of the hallway, a toxic mist appeared. The Animus consumed it in a single breath, breathed it forth again from the vents in its sides as nothing more than steam.

  Going past the tapestries, they encountered a sudden whirling mass of blades, which Yskatarina blocked with a blow of her hand. She lost three fingers, which clattered to the floor and writhed like worms. But the blades ground to a tangle of metal and then she and the Animus were standing before the door of the Grandmothers’ chamber.

  Yskatarina kicked it open with a whine of servomechanisms. The Animus sidled through, but met no resistance. The Grandmothers stared at Yskatarina from the depths of the bed, eyes bright.

  “You are from Nightshade,” Right-Hand whispered, echoed by her companion.

  Yskatarina grinned. “And you are my aunts.
Elaki, you—all sisters from the same skein. Family quarrels...”

  “Elaki’s child?” The Grandmothers stared at her.

  “Exactly so. I have come for the hito-bashira. And this, of course, is my Animus.” The Animus’s mandibles clicked open. “He can blast you to powder with a single breath,” Yskatarina said.

  “It does not matter what you do to us. You will not find what you are looking for.”

  “If you don’t give the girl to me,” Yskatarina said, “I will order the Animus to fry you, as slowly as a pair of prawns. You will sizzle and shriek, my aunts.”

  The Grandmothers’ mouths widened into shark-smiles. “You will not find her. We cannot summon her. She is not here.”

  “Where is she, then?” Yskatarina asked, feeling a slow temper begin to build, like a thunderhead.

  “We have sent her away, to a place where you and Elaki will never find her. She is safe.”

  “Tell me or die,” Yskatarina said.

  The Grandmothers looked at Yskatarina, then at the Animus, then at each other.

  “We have lived long enough,” they said, and before Yskatarina could order the Animus to act, Right-Hand reached down and tugged at one of the tubes that ran beneath the bed. A thick white fluid flooded out, seeping across the driftwood floor like a tide.

  “Wait,” Yskatarina said, but the Grandmothers were crumpling and folding, shrinking as though it had been nothing more than the fluid that had animated them, as, perhaps, was the truth. Their eyes remained bright with vindictiveness right up until the moment that Yskatarina, temper breaking at last, shrieked to the Animus, “Do it! Make them burn”—and the joined women vanished behind a sheet of ire-palm.

  Yskatarina watched until there was nothing left except an ashy slime upon the floor, and then she began to search the room with frantic haste, muttering as she did so—perhaps to the Animus, perhaps to herself. There was no data pertaining to the lost haunt-ship, but there was other information, instead.