Red Sun Also Rises, A (14 page)

“Of course I do! I am offended that you doubt it!”

“Then I ask you one more time, Yissil Froon: why do you object to the dissonance?”

“Because in complicating the manner in which we live, the dissonance places greater demands on the Working Class. The Aristocrats must therefore channel greater intelligence to them. Are enough of us remaining to do this? And can we Magicians do it while also protecting our fellows when the Saviour’s gaze is averted? I fear not.”

Reverie’s long fingers tapped on the lectern. “Hum! You feel the dissonance has tipped the balance?”

“I do,” Yissil Froon said. “Father Mordant Reverie, Mr. Aiden Fleischer is of no consequence. I have no objection to him remaining in New Yatsillat as one of the Servants. Clarissa Stark, however, as the source of dissonance, should be banished from New Yatsillat and exiled to the Whimpering Ruins, at the heart of the Shelf Lands.”

I clutched my companion’s wrist.

“The Shelf Lands are a long way from here,” Reverie said. “Past the Shrouded Mountains and beyond even the Zull eyries.”

“Precisely,” Yissil Froon replied. “We began to change the moment she joined the Aristocracy. We know, then, that her influence can reach us from the Shrouded Mountains. To escape it, we must send her farther away even than that.”

“And if we do, what then will become of this?” asked Reverie, indicating the chamber around us and plainly meaning the entire city.

“It will become irrelevant,” came the answer. “We will not require it.”

After a long pause, Reverie said, “Thank you, Father Yissil Froon. Sit, please.” Again, he became quiet, lowered his head, and appeared to be lost in thought. Then he looked up. “I shall
not
send Clarissa Stark to the Whimpering Ruins.”

I felt myself slump with relief.

He went on, “I shall recommend to Lord Upright Brittleback that she and her companion be allowed to remain with us, for I have faith that the imbalance between we Aristocrats and the Working Class will be corrected. However, when the Eyes of the Saviour look upon us again, if Immersion fails to increase our numbers, then I will follow your guidance, Yissil Froon. As to the roles these newcomers shall play, Miss Stark will train as a Magician with Mademoiselle Clattersmash. We can better monitor the dissonance if she joins us.”

Father Yissil Froon stood again. He turned to Clattersmash and asked, “What does Yazziz Yozkulu call himself now?”

“Colonel Momentous Spearjab,” she answered.

He nodded and addressed Mordant Reverie. “I recommend that Miss Stark’s Servant trains as one of the City Guard with Colonel Spearjab.”

Reverie angled his head to one side, as if taken aback. “A Servant in the Guards, Father? That’s unheard of, and it makes no sense. Are we to arm him against his own release?”

“It is highly unusual, I agree, but just as you, some little time before Miss Stark arrived in New Yatsillat, were told in a Dar’sayn vision that she’d require the item you now see strapped over her eyes, so it was revealed to me that Aiden Fleischer would wield a sword. Only the Guards carry the weapon, hence he must join them.”

The entire gathering chorused, “The Saviour knows all!”

“What? I can’t be a guard!” I objected. “I haven’t the constitution for that sort of thing!”

The beak of every crow mask in the chamber turned to point in my direction.

“It is not your place to object,” Reverie said. “And in future, I advise you to speak only when you’re spoken to.” He turned back to Yissil Froon. “Very well, it shall be as you advise.”

My mouth worked but no further words emerged. I was shocked. No one had ever before addressed me in such a fashion.

Mademoiselle Crockery Clattersmash, responding to a gesture from Reverie, moved out of the pews and approached us. She’d taken only a few steps when she suddenly reeled to one side and collapsed against a pillar, which she clutched at for support. A low moan sounded from behind her mask.

“Mademoiselle?” said Reverie, moving down from the lectern. “Are you unwell?”

“Yes,” came the weak response. “No. Just a little dizzy. I shall be fine.” She straightened, shook her head slightly, and stepped over to us.

“Come,” she said, and led us out of the room, from the temple, and into the street. It immediately became apparent that while we’d been inside, New Yatsillat had expanded even more.

° °

We were given a large empty house on the city’s fourth level, situated at the edge of a quiet little square with a fountain at its centre. Three steps led to our double front doors, which opened onto a very spacious vestibule that gave access to five big, rectangular ground-floor chambers. A steep ramp sloped up the right-hand wall to the upper floor, on which there were six more rooms. The property was plumbed, and most of the rooms had a fireplace.

Mademoiselle Clattersmash told us we’d have plenty of time to settle in and sleep before commencing our training. She left, but we’d only just closed the door behind her when there came a knock upon it and we found ourselves in the presence of three plain-masked Workers—a furniture maker, a tailor, and a grocer. Each asked what we required, and it quickly became apparent to us that the provisions would be free of charge, for the concept of money was totally lacking in the Yatsill.

Adopting the philosophy that we might as well make ourselves as comfortable as possible as quickly as we could, we ordered from the furniture maker tables and chairs, beds, desks, sofas, armchairs, sideboards, armoires, bureaus, and a great many other things, every one of which had to be described in meticulous detail.

The tailor measured us from head to toe. I asked him to make me a black three-piece suit, top hat, and button-up boots. The latter had him bemused until I showed him my feet and described how they should be shod. Once he’d understood the concept, he was confident he could deliver and enthused about adapting the idea for Yatsill feet—though they weren’t really feet at all, being more the pointed ends of the four legs. With regard to the suit and topper, he shook his head and mumbled through his mask, “No, mate. This ain’t for the likes of you.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You’re a Servant. It ain’t seemly for you to sport togs like this.”

Clarissa pulled me to one side. “Just to keep the peace while they’re judging us, you’ll have to pose as my Servant.”

“Have I plummeted so far in the social order?” I cried out. “It’s absurd!”

“It’s necessary,” she insisted. “But it’s for appearances only, nothing more.”

I was too tired to argue, so I settled for underclothes, shirt, trousers, jacket, and a cloth cap. I mollified myself with the thought that I’d at least have the boots I wanted.

“I’ll also bring you a uniform,” the tailor said. “A Servant in the City Guard, fancy that!”

“I don’t much,” I muttered.

Clarissa decided to forego the voluminous skirts of the British female and settled for a brown two-piece suit. She dispensed with the obligatory hat, saying she’d always hated the things.

“Trousers again!” I chided. “My initial suspicions about you were correct—you’re a confounded bloomerist!”

The tailor had no objection to her choice, but added, “You’ll require the robes of a Magician, too, ma’am.”

Next we spoke with the grocer and, not being certain what comestibles might be available, asked him to use his own judgement and bring us a selection.

Finally, at long last, we were alone.

The tailor had left two thick blankets with us, which we now placed on the floor in one of the upper rooms, side by side, negligent of propriety and drawn to this socially shocking arrangement by virtue of our extreme experiences.

We stretched out, both exhausted.

“I understand absolutely nothing of this,” I said. “The creatures talk complete nonsense. I obviously lost my mind when we left Theaston Vale and am becoming progressively more insane with every hour that passes.”

“Then I’m also a candidate for Bedlam,” Clarissa answered, “which I refuse to believe. Better to regard our circumstances as similar to those of Alice, whom Mr. Lewis Carroll had fall into a rabbit hole.” She reached up to her forehead and touched the little bumps over her goggles. “Wonderland.”

“Almost horns, Clarissa. Have you any idea what they are?”

“No, but they have something to do with the way my mind has been opened to the Yatsill.”

“Opened?”

“Made accessible. The Yatsill are mimics. Incredible mimics. They’re somehow mining my memories and knowledge, and this city is their interpretation of my impressions of London. They wear clothes and speak English because of me. Even the masks they wear come from my recollections of the Hufferton Hall
bals masqués
. I’m not sure they can help themselves.”

“Yarvis Thayne and Yissil Froon appear to be rather resistant to your influence.”

“Perhaps not as much as they like to believe. They spoke English, after all, and the way of life whose passing they lament was no more authentic than this—it was quite clearly an imitation of the Koluwaian culture. Remember what Yissil Froon said? The Yatsill were akin to animals until the Saviour looked upon them. I suspect that this process of having my mind made accessible by Immersion must, once upon a time, have also happened to a Koluwaian.”

“What! You mean their god, the Saviour, was an islander?”

“I do, which explains why they regard the sea—or Phenadoor—as some sort of heaven, just as the Koluwaians did. What I don’t understand, though, is this business of being ‘taken.’ We need to find out what it means and why the Magicians need to protect themselves and the rest of the Aristocrats from it. To quote Father Mordant Reverie, we have until ‘the Eyes of the Saviour look upon us again.’”

“What do you think that signifies?”

“Tomorrow.”

I sat up. “Tomorrow?”

“The Eyes of the Saviour are the suns, Aiden. When they set, they won’t look upon us again until sunrise. We have until tomorrow.”

“Thank goodness! I feel that we’ve been here for weeks and weeks, but it’s barely even noon yet! Tomorrow isn’t due for ages.”

Clarissa gave a grunt of agreement and murmured, “But the night, Aiden. What happens during the long, long night?”

° °

“Get out of here! Run! Run!”

“Mr. Skin-and-Bones.”

“Please!”

“Mr. Books-and-Bible.”

“I’ll kill you!”

“Mr. Thoughts-and-Theories.”

The blade tore into her, slit
ting her stomach wide open. Her entrails slopped onto the cobbles. They writhed like tentacles, as if possessed of a life of their own.

I pulled on the sword and watched its blade slide out of her flesh, red and wet and gleaming.

She collapsed. My face was reflected in the black lenses of her goggles.

“No!” I screamed. “Not you! Not you!”

My terrified eyes filled the two dark circles, imposed onto her face as if they were her own—as if she’d just recognised the evil in me and was paralysed by fear of it.

Her eyes. My eyes.

The blackness of her lenses.

The blackness of my soul.

Her corpse suddenly lurched up, hands clutching my shoulders, fingers digging into my flesh.

“Aiden! Wake up!”

“Who will forgive me?” I yelled. “If there’s no God, who will forgive me?”

“Stop it! You’re having a nightmare!”

I pulled away, rolled onto my side, and curled up, my whole body shaking.

“It’s all right,” Clarissa said soothingly. “It’s all right.”

“Nine levels,” I croaked. “This place has nine levels, just as Dante described in the
Divine Comedy
.”

“We’re not in Hell.”

“I am.”

She put a hand on my shoulder and looked down at me. “I don’t think you’ve ever properly known yourself, Aiden. Hell is for the evil, but I think evil is more properly recognised by those who witness it than by those who commit it. I do not see it it you. Not at all.”

My racing heart and panting respiration slowed. I rolled over and got to my feet, ran my fingers through my hair, and wiped the beads of sweat from my face. “Perhaps you’re right,” I mumbled, but I was not convinced. A terrible self-loathing was upon me—intense, the pressure from it almost a physical sensation.

To change the subject, I asked, “For how long have we slept?”

“I haven’t a clue. Let’s look outside.”

After performing our ablutions, we descended the ramp to the ground floor, opened the front door, and stepped out into the bright yellow light. The suns were at the noon mark. A light breeze was blowing, sharp with citrus.

Overhead, a group—or perhaps I should say “school”—of whale-sized inflated membranes were pulling themselves over the city by means of filament-like dangling limbs. They were almost transparent and were emitting an airy piping. Ribbony things, like I’d seen before, were coiling along beside them.