Evan Burl and the Falling, Vol. 1-2 (14 page)

"Roslings don't just die," I said. "You did something to make her lose her mind."

"Why would I kill her?" Mazol said. "We can't run the clankers without Roslings."

Listen to your uncle.

I felt Yesler pulling me toward the door. Mazol flashed me a pearly smile. I lunged at him. Yesler tightened his grip on my arm. I ripped away. My leg brace caught on a clanker. The splint shattered. I felt nothing.
 

Sapience coursed through my blood. I lifted an oil drum above my head. Except, I wasn't touching it. The barrel floated. I stared up. How is this happening?

"No," Mazol yelled, "Don't do it!"

Something plunged into my neck.

My head split with pain. Yesler stood beside me. A syringe fell from his hand, empty but for a few drops of liquid coal. I staggered sideways. The oil drum crashed to the platform, rolled over the side, dropped six floors to the base of the Caldroen.
 

Someone whispered in my ear, "you're not who you think you are." The voice sounded like Henri's, but she stood twenty feet away.
 

Little Saye appeared. But Little Saye was dead. Wasn't she? Could Mazol have faked it? She said something I couldn't understand. Mazol grinned. Their voices rang in my ears long after the world melted, fading until just one remained.

You should have slaughtered him when you had the chance.

I didn't realize—

You better open your eyes.

But this isn't a dream. I'm awake.

Not all who dream are asleep.
 

How do I end it?

Slay the dream.

And what will I find on the other side?
 

That you're a monster.

...

I am a monster.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Cevo
 

Children are like bovem dung. While a necessary part of life, they are not something I am particularly fond of spending time with. I counted at least 121 of the little beasts in the crowd, cuddling their mothers, yawning, rubbing their eyes—I do not like to see the young mixed up in these kinds of affairs. The older children entertained themselves with mischief. Four threw rocks at boars. A cluster pretended to hang a smaller boy by his neck. A few others chased a limping cat with sticks.

As for the adults, tenacious and able-bodied, they filled the courtyard and streets as far as I could see. Thousands, shuffling about, whispering with mute anticipation. Yes, they suited my purposes well enough.

The inns of El Qir—the city I
had raised from the mud nearly one hundred years ago—had been full for days; visitors slept in carts or pitched tents along the alleys. I would not have been surprised to find they lodged with bovems and dogs too. So much the better. I needed every hand I could muster.

In three days, the travelers expected to make a treacherous journey back to their homes—tree houses or thick-walled hamlets or castles buried deep in the jungles. The city would be cleaned; life inside El Qir's walls would return to normal. Or so the Winterend festival had gone for eighty-nine years. How will they react when they discover the gates are locked?

Vice Regent
Mahalelel stood at the edge of the balcony.
 

"You do not seem happy to see me again," I said, leaning over the balcony rail beside him. He folded his arms and stepped off the dais. I cringed at the smell floating into my nostrils. My hatred for El Qir had increased in the thirty years since Mahalelel and I parted ways. This city used to be bonne bouche; the dock town to the east had been all but abandoned by migrants seeking their dreams in my shining gem. And now, my disgust was increasing in exponential proportion to the number of hours I endured these people's presence. I hated the way the alleys and streets stank eternally of horse and urine. I hated the manner of speech, pauper's vocabularies, and uneducated accents. I hated the way yesterday's meal stuck in their rotting teeth.
 

But most of all, I hated their laughter. Heads tilted back, wide putrid mouths, letting loose with rank, seedy joy. How I dreamed of knitting their mouths shut with silver threads. I could think of a thousand ways to end their laughter. I could invent a new punishment each day for a hundred years and never run out of ideas. I could make them cut out their own eyes, rip out their own teeth, shove their arms into a meat grinder. I am demiurgic like that.

—and yet, I had my vow.

29 years, 324 days since the last time I broke it. Mahalelel would remember that well. I wasn't about to end a record streak like that on the slack-jawed, sewer-dwelling rats who stared up at me. With trembling fingers, I produced a worn scrap of paper from my cloak's inner pocket, holding it close so Mahalelel wouldn't see. I read the words again, seeking the strength to maintain control.

Voveo.

I devote myself to cleansing the world of sapience and all those who practice it.

I abnegate forever sapience, and all its derivatives, unless such use is required to fulfill this vow.

Finis.

Cevostramos Tervereous Magmilliano

A simple vow; a contract of chastity. The difficulty comes in execution. I will not rip these heathens' tongues from their mouths. I will not bleed their eyes. I will not twist their lungs and intestines into a knot. Bend them to your will, Cevo, just abstain from sapience.
 

I wiped the balcony rail with a piece of cloth before placing my bleached white alligator-skin gloved hands on it. The hammered-thin gauntlets cost more than the citizens of El Qir earned in a year, but fine embellishments like this are worth every bronze coin, especially in the uncivilized regions of the world.

The sun hung in the sky midway to its peak, climbing tirelessly as it had the last 500,000 days we had spent ruling this earth together—yet the sun got all the glory while I got my hands dirty. Condensation clung to the grass in the shadowed courtyard.
 

Scaffolding rose around the lamp post in the middle of the courtyard; two gagged and nearly naked humans faced me across the empty space between us. Stretched in four directions, their arms and feet were tied to ropes that ran through pulleys to a team of horses. Everyone loves an execution, yet a tension lay across the courtyard—like having a guest show up to a dinner party naked. No one wanted to stare, but no one could keep from looking either.

Two rag dolls were pinned to my balcony, representing the two humans, or juras as they were called during the festival. The festival began when the Chancellor, I, poured wine on one of the dolls, condemning one jura to death. The other human received forgiveness and was celebrated as the Winterend Honorarius.
 

My armored guards begirded the crowds in the distance, a chinkless ring around the courtyard, glistening like a silver noose. I leaned out, waved to the people. "People of El Qir." I imagined women from the crowd confessing adoration for my baritone timber—not an uncommon occurrence. "It is an honor to serve as your new chancellor during Winterend." Small lies like this are necessary sometimes; do not feel guilty Cevo. "It is with love that we remember our great leader who passed, but I believe he would have us enjoy this festival and not mourn our loss." The people need a leader who understands their pain. "The festival is almost upon us. Bring me the wine of the jura."

The crowd cheered—that is good—thinking about jura blood instead of the guards forming ranks at their backs. My arms spread wide—the sort of thing crowds like—as the festival undersecretary brought me the most beloved city relic, the Winterend Goblet, filled with red wine. I caught my reflection in the gold cup—speckled skin, white mustache, short curly hair catching the lustrous morning; who would not want to see that face staring back at them every day?
 

Smile Cevo. The people's eyes are upon you. The crowd chanted, "Hagnus," the name of the one they wanted released.

I beckoned to Mahalelel. "Who is she?"

He didn't answer. I turned, raising an eyebrow at him.

He coughed. "A jungle traveler, she has no family."

"A hardy woman to be sure." I regarded her more carefully. "Or, girl, I think? She cannot be more than one and twenty."
 

"She took up residence three weeks ago with the poor of El Qir," he continued, "living in the city's walls. She has been requesting your audience since the day she arrived."
 

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Would you have seen her?"

I paused. "I see your point."

"Hag-nus, Hag-nus, Hag-nus," the crowd chanted.

"What is the man's crime?"

"Odegaard, landlord of twenty-four units in Bitter Lake, accused of pyromancy. He burned three houses to the ground because the tenants refused to pay their rents. He locked the families inside before setting the fires."

I dabbed my lips with a cloth. "And the woman?"
 

"Hagnus stole a single loaf of bread from Roanoke Baker in the lower village. The people say she's ill for luck, becoming jura for something so small, a mere loaf of bread. And she stole the bread just this morning."

Juras are chosen by the last two crimes committed in the city, no matter how diminutive. I do not believe in luck. Priding myself on efficiency, I followed the letter of the law. Laws are beneficial for controlling the masses.
 

"I would rather not sacrifice either of the juras," I said.
 

"It's your law."

"That was seventy-six years ago. I think so differently..." Now that I have mines to run. "Have you considered slavery?"

"For what?"

"As a replacement for execution. Capital punishment is like slaughtering a perfectly good draft horse." Plus, every time I blotted out someone's life, I created a whole lot of work for myself. I had to hunt down every last brother and daughter and second cousin and assassinate, or adequately maim, every one of them in order to ensure myself a peaceful life, or at least a life that did not require constantly looking over my shoulder. For whatever reason, humans are often more understanding of enslavement. Plus, you get the added benefits of free labor for a decade or so, however long it takes for the slaves to die.
 

"The people came to see a killing," Mahalelel said.

I sighed. "You are right, I suppose." If they didn't get one, they might revolt. This would result in additional loss of labor, and perhaps, if my guards could not keep them in line, I would be forced to break my vow.
 

"Hag-nus, Hag-nus, Hag-nus." The people stomped and clapped and laughed. How can anyone think with such rank seedy joy running rampant in the streets? Give the people what they want Cevo. Slay the male jura. Free Hagnus—she was so young after all. Practically a child, and I do not like to see children caught up in these messy affairs. I held the goblet over the dolls.

"Hag-nus, Hag-nus, Hag-nus!"

I started to tip the wine over the male doll, but stopped. Something about this did not sit right in my stomach. Should I really kill the man?
 

"What are you waiting for?" Mahalelel said.

"Quiet!"
 

But he was right. Why should I care? These two juras were less than mus stercus to me. I am Chancellor. I am more powerful than the sun. I am one of the Three. I am Cevostramos.

Tipping the glass a little more, a bead of wine pooled at the lip of the cup. I stared at Hagnus. She glowered back with unblinking twilight eyes. Though she was gagged, I detected a hint of smile on her lips, like we shared some wicked secret. Perhaps she was merely confident in the crowd taking her side. Or something else?
 

Her features struck me as familiar. The crowd grew restless. They wondered why I hesitated. A fair question.

But why did Hagnus become jura? No one committed petty crimes this time of year for fear of being strung up for Winterend. Yet this woman got caught stealing bread hours after I became Chancellor. She must have
wanted
to become jura.

The crowd booed and slapped their hands. A warning. The last time anyone threatened me like this I broke my vow, and I mean really broke it good. Mahalelel was the only one who lived, and only because my father wouldn't have approved of slaughtering him. But why should I care if Hagnus wanted to be jura? I did not need a riot, not now that I was so close to finding Evan Burl. I stared at her eyes as I tipped my glass on the male jura's doll.

Then I saw it.
 

I jerked the glass back, sloshing wine on my white coat.

How shortsighted I had been not to put it together sooner. She did become jura to get my attention, desperate I would notice her. A pattern I have seen before.
 

Usually women like Hagnus hide from me. My vow compelled me to hunt them down. I found pleasure in coming upon them secretly, wrapping invisible fingers around their necks while they slept. But sometimes, the especially foolish ones came looking for help. Hagnus must have heard stories. She thought I could make her understand what was happening to her, maybe cure her. Maybe help her grow stronger.

I filled my lungs with air. Surely if she had been closer, I would have noticed sooner. Yet even at this distance, I sensed her power. I drew her scent into my pores. The hairs on my arm stood on end. Positively electric.

Little Hagnus was not as harmless as she seemed.
 

Little Hagnus was a sapient.
 

Someone shouted, "Let her go!"

"This ain't right."
 

I should just lynch the man now, deal quietly with Hagnus later. That is what Father would do—

"If you won't do it," Mahalelel said, "I will." He grabbed at the goblet. Wine sloshed on my hand.
 

I shoved him back. "You forget your place, little brother."

"You are no brother of mine."

"You are correct,
adopted
-brother."

"Father would weep if he saw what you've become."