Rojan Dizon 02 - Before the Fall (2 page)

It took some persuading to get the boy to come with me—I’d saved him from a good kicking, or worse, but he knew from my voice I was an Upsider and from his point of view that meant I was a bastard. I can’t say he was wrong, but I can be persuasive when I want to be, not to mention he was half starved and I had come prepared with food. Not much, and it was a crap not much, but it was all we could find, all there was. He shovelled it in like he’d not eaten in a week, which he probably hadn’t, and followed me with a suspicious scowl that said he’d be off at the first hint of trouble.

Mesh walkways crisscrossed above us, leaving no shadow in the gloom. They sagged away from walls, dripped who knows what down our necks. The further we got away from the ’Pit that Downsiders had once called home, the more jittery the boy became. At least once we got to the level of the office, the walkways were firmer—but the drop was longer. Further up the buildings get less squashed looking, but down here the weight of the city above, below, all around, was a pressure you could feel in your bones.

By the time I got the boy back to our new offices it had begun to rain, a slow cold seeping through all the levels above us, a steady drip that always seemed to find the crevices in your jacket or around your neck to sidle into. We’d had to move office because being associated with the old me was now a dangerous thing. I have this way with people—I’m great at really pissing them off, and this time I’d outdone myself. Whole battalions of Upsiders were pissed with me, or would be if they found out I was still alive. The Downsiders weren’t far behind and, to top it off, most of the ruling Ministry, while unofficially ignoring the fact I was still alive, would be pleased if I ended up in lots of small, messy bits. So currently I was not me, Rojan, bounty hunter, pain-mage, shirker of responsibility, pathological womaniser and physical coward. I was Makisig, Maki for short. I was still all the other things, though I was trying to be subtle about them. Especially the mage bit. We’d only been legal a few weeks but there was still a hell of a lot of hate about, and legal isn’t the same as safe.

Dendal had a knack for picking sodding awful offices, too. This one had previously been a front for a Rapture dealer and off-their-faces lowlives had a habit of wandering in and asking if they could score. Some of them got quite unhappy when all they got was a lecture from Dendal about the evils of drugs, beer, sex and anything else he could think of before he sent them on to the other huge drawback of the offices.

The temple next door.

I could hear them now, chanting and praying their sanitised, Ministry-approved prayers. People playing with their imaginary friend. Not that I would ever say that to Dendal. He gets very focused when the Goddess is involved. I suppose a bit of faith gave people hope, which was about all that could be said for it. They needed hope now more than ever.

At least we were far up enough that some of the little power there was ran a light at the end of the street, so even if we didn’t see more than a minute or two of the sun at noon, and a hazy fourth-hand light after that, bounced down through the mirrors, we could see where we were going. Sometimes I wished we didn’t have the light; all it illuminated was grubby, damp and depressing.

I aimed the boy at the office door. He would come in handy as a shield against Lastri—secretary, harridan and person who made sure Dendal ate occasionally and didn’t bump into anything too hard while he was away with the fairies. Also one of the
very
few women over eighteen and under about forty-five I’ve ever met who, despite her severe and primly attractive features, I have never tried to talk into bed. I’d never make it out alive.

She smiled at the boy as we came in, put a motherly hand around his shoulder and steered him to the small kitchen at the back while flinging me a look that said it hoped I strangled myself in my sleep.

Dendal was at his desk in the corner; he always was. His grey hair puffed round him like an errant cloud and his thin, monk-like face was pinched in what looked like concentration but might just as likely have been a daydream.
More
likely even. Paperwork surrounded him, as did an array of candles that put the temple next door to shame. I said a quick hello and got a vague, dreamy look in return. Not quite with it, our Dendal. Oh, he’s a genius all right, smartest mage I ever met. When he’s anywhere approaching reality that is, which is about once a week if I’m lucky.

“Hello, Perak,” he murmured. At least he’d got the gender right, if not the sibling. Then something on one of his pieces of paper caught his eye and he burrowed into his little fairyland again. He only really concentrated on his messages. To him it was his Goddess-given duty whether he used his magic or not, to help people communicate. It looked like today he was up to the more mundane pastime of writing letters for the majority of people around here who couldn’t. No magic, no dislocated fingers, just Dendal’s vague tuneless hum and the scritch-scratch of pen on paper that had been part of my life for so long I only noticed it when it stopped.

So far, so normal.

I chucked my jacket on to the sofa squashed in the corner, patted Griswald, the stuffed tiger, on the head and aimed for my desk. At least the boy hadn’t generated any paperwork, for which I was thankful. I checked the desk carefully, making sure it hadn’t laid any ambushes for me, and sat down, ready to do something about my hand. At this rate it was never going to heal, what with finding people and my little sideline at Dwarf’s lab.

One of Lastri’s pointed notes sat on the desktop, a superior sneer in the slope of the handwriting. Another boy to find but at least I had a name to go on, so maybe I could get away with just searching some records rather than buggering up my hand any more than I already had. It would have been even better if someone was actually paying me for all this searching, but all I’d got so far was Dendal’s assurance that I was doing the Goddess’s work. All very well, but she wasn’t paying my rent. Luckily the landlord—Dendal—tended to forget what I owed, though Lastri was distressingly accurate, not to mention insistent.

The other reason for the change of offices, an extra partner in our motley little crew, sat at his desk. Pasha still had a face like a sulky monkey nesting in a rumple of dark hair, but since the Glow had gone, and with it the ill-gotten pain that powered it, he’d seemed to grow. Less jumpy now, but still plenty angry.

He looked up from the news-sheet he’d been scowling over. “What happened to you? You look like shit.”

He was still a git. I braved the vagaries of my desk drawer. The trick was to open it up, grab what you wanted and get your hand out quick, before it realised what you were doing and slammed shut. It was unreasonably possessive of its contents, I felt, and I only had one good hand left anyway.

I managed to get out the mirror without incurring any broken bones and studied my reflection. Pasha was right: I did look like shit. I would like to point out that the mirror was a new thing and not lurking in my drawer because I’m incredibly vain. Well, I am quite vain, but that’s not why it was there. No, it was there because of the new direction my magic had taken, and because a lot of people thought I was dead and I wanted it to stay that way, or I would be.

I still had a bit of juice left from my earlier hand-mangling so I did the best I could to tidy myself up, rearranging my face back to my more usual disguise. It’s weird seeing someone else’s face in the mirror every day, but better than being dead. I only let the disguise drop when I slept, or when I shaved. Shaving the wrong-shaped face is hard and, I’d discovered, usually ends in blood and swearing.

I couldn’t do anything about the rather spectacular shiner, though. My new skills weren’t up to that yet, in the same way that I couldn’t rearrange my voice, though I was working on it.

Pasha wandered over, sat on the edge of the desk and grinned his monkey grin. I couldn’t help but like him, no matter how hard I tried not to.

“So, who gave you that and why did you let them?”

“She caught me by surprise. I’ve decided to give up women.”

His snorted in disbelief before he closed his eyes and twisted his hands in his lap.

“You can stop that as well. I told you: you don’t read my mind, I won’t permanently rearrange your face.” It came out sharper than I’d intended, mainly because I didn’t want him figuring out just why the lady in question had belted me one. And the lady before that and, come to think of it, the lady before that as well. Let’s just say, saying the wrong name at a delicate moment isn’t a good move and leave it at that. I was definitely swearing off women. Definitely, for
sure
this time.

The Kiss of Death, Lastri calls me. I never mean to, but I kill any budding relationship stone dead. Usually it was for more varied reasons, granted. Being unable to resist temptation tops the list. Like responsibility, willpower rarely makes it on to my list of good points. Why deny all those women their chance? So many, and all so lovely…

My wandering eyes had stilled for a while, but were back to their old tricks in something like self-defence for my heart, which, if I’m brutally honest, was as mangled as my hand. Playing my old games took my mind off that, meant I didn’t need to think about it, what I’d lost and Pasha had gained.

Pasha took the hint and changed the subject. “So, the boy, you found him? Any joy?”

“Found him, and, yes, he’s a pain-mage all right. Lastri’s feeding him up, I expect. Built like a stick, and he was about to get the crap kicked out of him by a load of Upsiders. Makes me wonder what the little sod’s done.”

Pasha gave me a cryptic look, but the words were pure viciousness. “Was born, perhaps. Had the audacity to come up here when we stopped the Glow and opened the ’Pit. Got the wrong skin tone, the wrong accent, worships the wrong way. Take your pick.”

His tone took me aback—Pasha looked like a monkey that’s lost its nut, but he could be a lion when he wanted to be, and he would always roar in the defence of Downsiders.

I hadn’t meant it that way; it had just come out as part of my sparkling and charming personality because I was pissed at having to use my magic, but I was still getting used to Pasha’s way of looking at things. “I don’t think––”

“No, I’ve noticed.”

I did think then, though. All the insults when I’d worn a Downsider face, the snarls and spits. The rumours of the Upsider gangs stomping lone Downsiders. Pasha still had it, that blue-white tone lurking under dusky skin. Brought up in the ’Pit with no sun, not even the few minutes a day someone Upside managed. You could usually tell a Downsider at a glance, and the accent was what really gave them away. Given that the Ministry would rather they weren’t here, the embarrassment of them even existing when they’d been denied for decades, the chances of them getting a look at the real sun from up in Heights or above was slim. It might take years for that unearthly pallor to go. It might never go.

“You seen this?” Pasha slapped down the news-sheet he’d been reading on my desk. I caught sight of the headline:
DOWNSIDERS
SPREAD
NEW
DISEASE
. Near the bottom was another article about Downsiders scattering malicious rumours of what had gone on in the ’Pit, and how it wasn’t true, followed by a frankly laughable account of what had “really” happened. Which, naturally, given that this was a shadow—not officially sanctioned, but a mouthpiece for some of their more vocal ministers—Ministry news-sheet, was a load of old bollocks. As was the bit about mages and our unholy ways and it was all our fault. Well, it was mostly untrue. I am fairly unholy. And I had screwed everyone pretty hard when I’d destroyed the Glow.

Plenty of people would believe it, though, about the Downsiders, and that was the problem. Why is it that a lie is always so much more persuasive to a mass of people than the truth? In this case, it was so they didn’t have to think about what had been going on under their feet all those years, so they didn’t have to feel guilty about it. People will do anything to avoid guilt.

No wonder Pasha was looking pissed off—he was a Downsider
and
a mage, so he was screwed both ways. I grabbed the sheet off him, scrunched it up and lobbed it into the bin, or tried to. It bounced off the rim and ended up teetering on the pile of other papery missiles that had failed to reach their target in what I like to call my filing system.

“No one believes what they read in there,” I lied. “It’s not even official.”

“You don’t. Plenty of others do. And it’s official enough. So are most of the other news-sheets. They’re all printing the same. Some Downsiders tried starting their own press up, but that lasted about a week before it got fired.”

“You had any trouble?” I asked.

His bitter shrug said it all, a lot more than his words did. “No more than anyone else. A lot less than some. Being able to read their minds helps me avoid it, and news like Jake gets around. Look, are you ready to go? Because we’ll be late.”

I bit back some smart comment that would only inflame things and nodded. “Go get the boy. I’m not sure I can face Lastri again today.”

The monkey grin came back. It went without saying that he and Lastri got on famously. I was pretty sure she was only nice to him to really grind it into my face how much she hated me, but Pasha seemed to like her. I have no idea why.

The boy was noticeably rounder in the stomach when Pasha brought him through. There was a smear of sauce by his mouth, and he snickered when he looked at me. I wondered what Lastri had told him and decided I didn’t want to know. I could sense one of her vendettas coming on.

I hurried the boy and Pasha out before Lastri could launch whatever evil plan she had in mind, and shut the door on her. The sign in the window was fresh-painted:

Licensed mages: that was very new and I liked that part. It meant I didn’t have to hide from the guards any more. Sadly, the general population wasn’t as quick to give up years of Ministry-induced prejudice. Neither was the Ministry if truth be told, but we had them by the bollocks and they knew it. They needed us if they wanted this city to live, if they wanted any of the little power they were getting, if they wanted Trade up and running, and they did. If only they’d tell everyone else that—we’d had two arson attempts in the few weeks since mages had become legal again.

Of course, Ministry being the pucker-arsed and slow-moving behemoth it was, and also being in control of everything from the flow of food to what news was allowed out, I wasn’t holding my breath. Even with a new archdeacon, it was taking far too long to change. Wouldn’t have surprised me to discover they weren’t telling people on purpose—not many people knew about my and Pasha’s little sideline in the lab, all that was keeping the few lights on the walkways lit, the little heat going. Then again, given the current feelings about mages, I wasn’t sure I wanted them to.

Maybe that was why there were so many guards on the walkway outside. It was wide and solid here, and my nerves were grateful for it, but it gave them more room. They’d been patrolling a lot more lately as food and heat and light grew scarcer, and, with few left with any jobs to keep them occupied now the factories were shut, tempers had begun to fray. Two of the guards lounged on a now-useless carriage, all its brass icons of saints and martyrs dull in the dim light, its Glow tube black and dead. I hurried past—my ever so slightly illegal past was still too fresh in my mind.

The doors of the temple were open, shedding soft candlelight on to the street, making it look almost, but not quite, habitable. The prayers reached even out here and the boy seemed to perk up. Downsiders—so raw and visceral about their beliefs. So different from the sort of insipid piety the Ministry insisted upon.

Pasha shot me a sly look over his shoulder as he went in with the boy—he always went to temple before we went to the lab. “You should come in. You never know, you might see something you like. We’ve got a guest preacher. Besides, I said I’d meet Jake.”

That was just cruel.

I stood outside for what seemed an hour but was probably only a minute. To go in, or not? Me and the Goddess have an arrangement; I don’t believe in her, she doesn’t dick about with my life. Of course, what with the Ministry being what it is and all that piety sloshing around, whatever form it took, it’s not a view I admit to just anyone. I like my limbs where they are.

In the end, it was the thought of Jake that made me go in. As soon as I got past the vestibule, I could see how things had changed. The saints and martyrs stood where they should, all blank-eyed statues with the faithful doing their duty at their feet in turn. There was Namrat, the tiger, the stalker, with a black cloth over his face, as was proper. The lights were bright but somehow dim at the same time, covering everything in a subtle glow. Behind the chanted prayers, silence seemed to flow from the walls, from the shush of feet on the carpet runner up the aisle. I may not be a believer, but I’ve always appreciated the serenity in temples, the reverent hush, yet there was something else here today, something extra.

The blandness that Ministry had insisted upon for so long had been encroached upon by vivacity. Behind the altar there were two murals instead of the old single one. On the right, the Ministry-approved version of the Goddess, all smiles and twinkles and flowers. She looked benign and welcoming, if a tad constipated. Namrat the tiger was more of a pussycat cosying up to her feet than a threat. Death, in Ministry-approved scripture, wasn’t to be feared because you’d get everything you wanted the other side if you were a good boy and kept your mouth shut and your head down. A little something to help the poor plebs endure the utter shit that they had to put up with in life. Made them more…biddable. Made me want to puke.

On the left was the change, maybe what brought a fresh air to the temple, a heart thump of new life. A hastily erected painting of the Downside Goddess in all her vicious, splendid glory. Primal and raw, maybe as she had originally been before the Ministry sucked all the life out of her and left only blandness. No pastel colours as on the right, no pretty birds and flowers, this was livid colour and passion, blood and sacrifice and death. Namrat was no pussycat here; he was all tiger. Rippling, graceful muscles under a glowing orange and black coat, big eyes, bigger teeth. This picture depicted the Goddess sacrificing her hand to Namrat, to appease his hunger, to stop him stalking us. A stupid, useless sacrifice as far as I’m concerned because he stalks us now, his hunger never sated, and we call him Death. Well,
I
don’t, but you see what I mean. For Downsiders, Namrat is something to fight against, and that’s when you get your reward after he inevitably wins—the reward is for the fight, for the sacrifice. I can at least respect that, even if I don’t believe it.

I turned away from the murals and looked about for Pasha. He walked off to one side, the boy trailing his steps as he reached Jake, with the man-square that was Dog hovering behind her as always. He’s a big lad, is Dog, with muscles on his muscles, glossy black hair to die for and all the mental capacity and ability to see everything as wonderful as a five-year-old. A five-year-old with a big fuckoff sword he knew how to use. A dangerous combination, and one reason why I’d taken to keeping a couple of lollipops in my pocket.

Jake looked up from her prayer, and the smile she gave Pasha…

I should have “I am a sucker for unobtainable women, especially her” tattooed on my forehead. Maybe something snappier, my forehead isn’t that big. “I am an idiot” perhaps.

She’d changed, too, since she’d come up from the ’Pit. Still all the grace of ten dancers, still with that you-can’t-ever-know-me look, the ice queen who was waiting to melt, but less brittle now, less sharp. She’d let the bright red dye—her defiance, her shield—fade from her hair and now it was a soft black, no longer bound tightly but left to curl around her face and across her shoulders. A softness in her eyes, too, and especially, and I so wished this was not true, when she looked at Pasha. Tied together with invisible string, glued with all they’d seen and done, experienced together, and short of murdering Pasha I’d not a chance in hell. I’d settle for all I could get, though.

Dear Goddess, I will start believing you exist the same day she smiles at me like that. Deal?
What the fuck was I saying?
Dear Rojan, it’s about time you got over it. Amen.

I tore myself away from the cause of my black eye—hers being the wrong name I had inserted into the delicate moment—and on to who else she’d brought with her.

Erlat smiled up at Dog, who looked like he’d been hit with a fifty-pound gladhammer. No surprise, because Erlat was polished to a gleam like jade, as easy on the eye and as hard to see through. Everything about her was elegant, from the smooth coil of dark hair at the nape of her neck to the slinky cut of her dress and the way she moved, as though she slid through the world without leaving a ripple. It looked like Dog had forgotten how to talk because he just nodded dumbly when she spoke to him and grinned like the big kid he was.

Yet even Erlat’s graceful poise looked strained today. She kept fiddling with the coil of hair and darting quick, furtive looks at the Upsiders that crowded the temple. I went to stand with her and was about to ask her what she was so worried about when the prayers stopped and a deep, soothing voice boomed out from the altar. Erlat forgot about me, her focus riveted on the preacher.

I didn’t really pay attention to the words at first, figuring they’d be the usual “Isn’t the Goddess lovely, do as you’re told now and you get a nice afterlife” brainwashing Ministry bullshit. Instead, I watched the congregation. The two Goddesses should have given it away, but perhaps I was feeling a bit dense that day.

Most of the Ministry temples refused entry to Downsiders, thought their ways of worship disgusting and heretical. The way so many priests had got the vapours when the ’Pit had opened up had kept me amused for weeks. The Downsiders, predictably, had said “screw you then” and opened their own, smaller temples, most of them one-room affairs that turned back into bedrooms when the prayers were done. Just another way of everyone showing how much they hated “the others”. Stupid, of course, but that’s people for you. Why like anyone when hating them is so much more fun?

Only Pasha, Jake, Dog, Erlat and the boy were all Downsiders, obviously so, and they weren’t the only ones in here, not today. Yet they got no funny looks, no sneers, and that was odd. They were, it seemed, welcomed. I could even see the sign of their devotional on Erlat’s hand, a black circle on her palm and a spot of blood in the centre, a practice that had most Ministry men fit to split.

Then what the guest preacher was saying seemed to register.

“And so all of us are people first,” he said. “Upsider or Down, Ministry or not, we are all believers. This man,” he pointed to an Upsider who started at being pointed out, “this man wants what is best for his family, what it is only right they should have. Food, warmth, safety. This man,” his pointing finger picked out a Downsider flanked by two children, all shadowy skeletons in clothes, “wants the same. Do you hate either of them for wanting what you want?”

I let the simple words, the even simpler message, wash over me without taking them in. The congregation hung on his every word, and I could see why,
hear
why. The words almost didn’t matter; it was the depth of his voice, the rolling smoothness of it, the utter conviction that rattled in every syllable. It was hard to stop yourself getting pulled along by it, no matter the simplicity of the sermon, but I managed it when he started saying we should praise the Goddess for giving us this test, this chance to show her how faithful we really were. Grateful for slowly starving to death? Bollocks to that, was all I could think.

Yet who was in the congregation was telling. A man who was a leading advocate for Downsiders, who spoke often and eloquently and was mostly ignored by everyone. Another, who was his equivalent among the Upsiders. Spokespeople, perhaps, for their factions. Both steady, reasonable men from what I knew of them, and maybe that was why they were so ineffective. Want something doing? Get someone with a burning passion, get an extremist who thinks he’s doing the Right Thing, who can make everyone burn as he does. People will follow that. They don’t often follow anyone whose main message is “I think we should be nice to everyone”.

This preacher was different, though, because that was his message but his burning need for it came through. An extremist of a different nature perhaps, but if you burn, people will warm to your flame no matter how crazily it leaps and devours the curtains, the house, the city, the world.

It showed in the eyes of the people up by the altar with him. Two altar boys, watching him with rapt attention, and a woman, not much more than a girl, really, maybe twenty though there was something childlike about her. More to keep my mind off Jake than for any other reason, I watched her as she gazed first at the priest and then at the Goddess, the more vivid one. A Downsider without a doubt but that didn’t bother me, not with the way she stood with her eyes demure, a pose belied by the intensity of her gaze.

She caught me watching and it seemed to startle her, but I smiled the old faithful, never-fails smile and got one in return. Pretty, she was, in an ethereal kind of way, with short, black hair that floated in the air, a blue-white undertone to her dusky skin making her look otherworldly and such a burn behind her eyes.

The priest shot me an isn’t-that-inappropriate-during-a-sermon look. I left him to it, and left her with a wink that made her giggle behind one hand and the priest frown and stumble over his words. I turned back to the congregation before he could call anyone to throw me out.

The biggest shock of all was the huddle of people right at the back of the temple. You could tell they were Ministry and something high up by the fat, sleek smugness of them, by the bland masks of piety that stank of fakery, to me anyway. All except one, and his was a face I knew. My brother Perak. The new Archdeacon.

Frankly, it’s embarrassing. I might have been the only person in the city who didn’t believe in the Goddess—or at least the only one I know—and my brother “ran” the Ministry, was the mouth of the Goddess. But maybe, just maybe, the city of Mahala had a chance, if the rest of the Ministry would actually let him
do
anything without having a group apoplexy.

Yet at least Perak was an improvement on the old Archdeacon. Less of a torturing bastard, which was nice. More visible, too—the old Archdeacon had kept himself under wraps and secret, but Perak’s openness, his willingness to see and be seen, was starting to endear him to Under even as it was pissing off the cardinals he insisted followed his lead. Hence his appearance here.

Perak watched the new preacher keenly while his entourage tried not to get too close to any of the oiks from this far down. One of them watched, aghast, as Dog carefully made his ash and blood devotional, his tongue poking out of his mouth in frowning concentration. It was tempting to wander up to the Ministry man and make the devotional myself, just to see how quickly he moved, but I restrained myself.