Echo City (38 page)

“I’m the one with questions.” Malia turned from the cupboard at last, a bottle of cheap wine in one hand, a small velvet bag in the other. The bag moved. Truthbugs. Peer shivered at the memory.

“Do you know where she is?” Nophel asked. “I
have
to see her.”

“So you can kill her?” Malia said.

“Why would I want to kill her?” Nophel’s eye was wide, but his expression was hard to read; his was not a normal face.

“Because you work for the Marcellans.” Malia squatted before him and placed the bag flat on her palm.

“Who are you?” Nophel asked.

“That’s none of your—”

“They’re Watchers,” Brunley said, and Malia glanced at him, annoyed.

“So am I!” Nophel said. “A true Watcher, watching from the highest roof.”

Malia placed the bag gently on the floor before her, drew her short sword, and pointed its tip at Nophel’s good eye. He strained back in the chair, holding his breath, tensing, and several large boils across his jawline burst. Malia leaned forward, following him. The sword was never more than a finger’s width from his eye.

“You’ve got only one good one,” she said. “Choose your lies carefully, you fucking Hanharan pet.”

Peer could feel the air in the small barge cabin thrumming with tension. Brunley was motionless, and Malia and the deformed man looked more like statues than like living people.

“I’m not lying,” Nophel said at last. “And the Marcellan I serve—”

“Even
whisper
that name in here, and I’ll cut its taste from your tongue!” Malia shouted. Peer stood, hesitant, but one quick glance from Malia told her to stay back.

There were times in Peer’s life when she became very aware of the potential routes the future might take. One of them had been when she was fifteen years old, and three men in Mino Mont had approached her with a proposition:
Work for us, and your family will never be poor again
. Even that fifteen-year-old girl had been wise enough to see the gang markings on the men’s ears, and her refusal had been a brave moment—but for a beat, she’d felt her life being squeezed into places she had no wish to go. Another time had been
when the Scarlet Blades came knocking at her door. There were four of them, two holding back in fighting positions, and for a time after opening her door to them, she’d wondered whether she was going to be raped and killed.

This was another such moment. So many things hung in the balance that she felt faint, as if a series of waves had suddenly set the barge dipping and rising. Rufus was lost; Gorham and Nadielle were somewhere unknown; there were rumors of Dragarians abroad. The city was whispering with fear, from couples huddled in café corners to crowds gathered on the street listening to doomsayers. The world was changing, and she was at its fulcrum.

“Stand back, Malia,” Peer said. “Killing’s no good here.”

“It was good enough for Bren,” Malia said, not taking her eyes from Nophel’s face.

“You think
he
hammered the nails into Bren’s wrists?”

The Watcher breathed heavily for a while, muscles visibly tensed as if she were about to push.

Nophel could strain back no farther.

And then Malia eased, lowering the sword until its tip touched her trouser leg.

“What of the one you serve?” Peer asked.

Nophel closed his eye, trying to compose himself. She could actually see his shirt shift with the fluttering of his heart.

“He’s not a Hanharan devout,” Nophel said.

“I should believe you?”

“Yes.” Nophel’s hand massaged something in his lap.

“Peer, you’ve been out of this for too long,” Malia said. “He can only be a spy, and as for Brunley—”

“I’d do nothing to harm you, Malia,” the old man said, hurt in his voice. “We’re
friends.”

Malia blinked at him but said nothing. Nophel squeezed the thing in his lap again. Peer caught Malia’s attention, then looked down at Nophel’s hands, and with a flash of movement Malia had the sword at the man’s throat again.

Now what is this?
Peer thought, hating the fact that she might have been wrong. Perhaps this man
was
a spy after all. Maybe he was an assassin.

“Enjoying yourself?” Malia asked. She pulled his hands aside, keeping the sword pressed to his throat, and delved into his pocket. Pausing, she smiled. “Is this a message tube in your pocket or are you pleased to see me, ugly man?” She pulled out the tube and lowered her sword once again.

“That’s not for you,” Nophel said. “It’s private.”

“If it’s for the Baker, she’d want me to read it.”

Peer wasn’t sure if that was the case. The tension between Nadielle and Malia had been palpable, and if the Baker knew this Watcher was reading messages meant for her … But there was little Peer could do. This was Malia’s home, Malia’s situation, and the Baker was somewhere far away. And Peer was just as curious to know what was in the tube as she was.

“Nophel—” Brunley began, but Nophel shook his head.

“I’m the messenger, that’s all. I serve Dane Marcellan, not because of his name but because of his beliefs.”

Malia threw the tube at Peer. She caught it, surprised, and held it before her, aware that everyone was watching.

“Open it,” Malia said.

Peer broke the wax seal and dropped it to the floor. Inside was a single piece of rolled paper, smooth and expensive. And on the paper, three lines. She read them aloud.

“Dragarians are abroad. The visitor might have arrived. I’m ready to help.”
She blinked at the sheet for a beat, scanning the words several more times to make sure she’d read them right.
The visitor might have arrived?
When she looked up, Malia was staring at her wide-eyed, and Nophel was glancing back and forth between them.

“A visitor?” he asked.

“Way ahead of you, Marcellan,” Malia muttered.

And then, between the hastily drawn curtains, Peer saw a face pressed at the window. A face within a scarlet hood.

   Dane Marcellan had watched many times as Nophel adjusted the Scopes’ attitude and focus, shifted the viewing-mirror feed from one to the next, and aimed their monstrous eyes, but he had been only an observer. Sitting now with the control panel before him, he cursed his inexpert hands.

He thought he had connected the viewing mirror into the North Scope, but something must have gone wrong. The image on the mirror was blurred, out of focus, and gray shapes exploded across the screen in bilious, almost fleshy blooms.
Does it know I’m not Nophel?
he wondered, but that was absurd. He’d never ventured up to the roof on his own—those things spooked him, as had much that the old Baker worked on—and there was no way they could know simply through the remote touch of his hands on metal.

He caught glimpses but needed to see more. Needed to make sure, because if what he thought he’d seen was proven right, then the message he’d sent with Nophel—that risky message, sent with an unstable, perhaps mad man—was already too late.

“Curse you, Nophel, you’d better carry that message tube well!” He picked up his slash pipe and inhaled once more, closing his eyes to weather the rush. His blood was thick with decades of slash use, and the more he took, the more he needed to feel its effect. It was akin to breathing—a necessity, not a pleasure. He tried to present the acceptable face of addiction, and mostly he succeeded. But it was during these private moments that he hankered after the unbridled drug rush he no longer felt. He inhaled again, sucking deeply, and his lungs were like rocks in his chest.

When he opened his eyes, the image had clarified a little. Whatever had upset the Scope seemed to have settled, and Dane sat motionless for a while with his hand on the focus ball, afraid to shift in case the Scope sensed him again.

Dragar’s Canton looked silent and still. The Scope was aimed at the shadowy junction between two massive domes, curving up to the left and right with the dark gulf at the screen’s center. Dane could not imagine these shells ever breaking open—doors slipping aside, Dragarians streaming out. And there lay their deception, in the stillness they had presented over the centuries and the way they had removed themselves from the currents of Echo City. Dragarians were a thing of the past, beyond the memory of anyone alive today. Forgotten, they had become phantoms.

Dane blinked, breathed in more slash, and then something
moved across the screen. He gasped and shifted his hand, edging the Scope to the right. It moved too far and blurred, but he corrected the movement, not thinking too hard about which levers and slides he touched, simply relying on instinct. He’d seen Nophel at work here often enough; all he had to do was …

There
. He stroked the focusing ball, the picture cleared, and a doorway was open in the left dome’s shadow. Several shapes streaked inside, crawling across the surface of the dome like ghourt lizards on a dawn ceiling, and the doorway closed behind them.

“They’re going home,” Dane whispered, a haze of slash smoke obscuring his view. He turned away from the mirror and closed his eyes, hand clasping tight around the pipe in his right hand. It had once been the hip bone of a tusked swine, carved and smoothed by one of the most talented bone artists in Marcellan Canton, and it was only the quality of its manufacture that prevented it from crumbling in his hand. His heart thundered, sweat ran across his expansive body, and he tried to rein in his darting thoughts. His mind was rich and strong, but sometimes it went too wild. Sometimes, the slash took it that way.

They’re going home, so they must already have what they wanted. That poor, wretched thing my love the Baker made and sent out—he’s back, and they have him
.

“We’re too late,” he muttered, and if he’d been able he would have gone to the new Baker then and there and cried at her feet.
The Dragarians have found the visitor already, and if he’s who I hope—who I fear—they’ll remain silent no more. And we have no idea what they’ve been doing under their domes all this time
. The Marcellans had sent spies, of course, hundreds over the centuries. But none of them ever came back.

Dane stood from the chair and staggered a few steps from the viewing mirror and controls. His legs shook. He felt sick. If the Dragarians believed they had their savior, they would do whatever was in their power the bring about the end of Echo City and usher in their prophesies of Honored Darkness. “We have to prepare for war,” he said, and that word
was beyond belief. “I have to see the Council, persuade those blinkered old bastards to go to
war.”

“Not all so blinkered, Dane,” a voice whispered in the shadows. “Though most
are
bastards.”

Dane caught his breath, looked around, and the darkness resolved into several swishing red cloaks. The Scarlet Blades came forward—two men and two women—and each of them looked terrified. They must have known already that they were here to kill someone they had served all their lives.

It was that more than the voice that convinced Dane he was discovered. Jan Ray Marcellan was there, and that was bad enough. But he had never seen a Blade look so afraid. “Jan Ray,” he said, trying to level his voice.
I’m not afraid of her
. “I never thought to see you in this place.”

Jan Ray came forward out of the shadows, tall and old and still as graceful as when she’d been a beautiful young woman. There were those who claimed that the Hanharan priestess was pure and unsullied, maintaining her birth-day innocence in deference to Hanharan and to better aid her total devotion to his cause. And there were also those who would whisper, given assurances of anonymity, that on occasion Jan Ray procured young girls from some of the worst rut-houses in Mino Mont and made them fuck her with chickpig hooves.

“I’m no great advocate of it,” she said, looking around with distaste. “Hanharan guides our vision; we have no need of the Baker’s … 
monsters
. But it gives comfort to my kin. To see the city, they believe, is to own it.”

“Haven’t we always owned it?” Dane asked, offering a half smile in the vain, evaporating hope that her visit was innocent.

“We?”

The Scarlet Blades had spread around Dane, boxing him in against the viewing mirror and controls. They were not yet disrespectfully close, but neither were they too far away. Any one of them could be on him in a blink.

“I was just about to leave,” he said. “I have grave news for the Council—”

“I can relay that news, Dane,” she said. She paused before
him, and once again he was amazed at her grace. When she moved she seemed to flow, the loose black clothing of a Hanharan priestess a flock of shadows making her their home. And when motionless, as now, there was a stillness to her that was almost unnatural. Her expression never shifted; her mouth barely moved when she spoke. Such economy of movement was the mark of someone in complete control of herself.

And of the four Blades as well. He should not forget them. Inner Guard, highly trained, unendingly loyal to the Marcellans, these soldiers would nevertheless obey priestesses over politicians at any time of the day or night. That was the fruit of their indoctrination.

“It’s news I should take myself,” he said.

Jan Ray smiled. He rarely saw that. It was horrible. “Where is your deformed
bastard
today?”

How dare she? Insolent bitch!

“I’m not certain where Nophel is. I’ll be reprimanding him when I find him; he should have been here, especially today, when—”

“I suspect he’s been reprimanded already.” Another of her habits—interrupting. It gave her control over any conversation.

“The Dragarians have emerged,” he said.
Truth is best right now, just … be sparing with it
. “I’m not sure why, or what they’ve come for, but we should send—”

“Should we?”

“Send the Scarlet Blades north immediately. To protect us.”

“Protect us from those unbelievers? They’ve hidden themselves away from Hanharan’s smile for five hundred years, Dane. What could we possibly have to fear from them?”

Dane glanced at the Blades, each of them with one hand on their sword. Ready to draw; ready to move. He breathed deeply, wondering at his chances.
I’m fat and they think I’m slow. They know me as a slash user. That’s all I have
.