Spira Mirabilis (59 page)

The fight continued above their heads, and bodies dropped periodically from the sky. Most lay still where they fell, but some paddled towards them. Pedro watched their approach, resting his hand on his basket of annunciators, but whenever they got close enough to touch the gondola, Leto would neatly and dispassionately dispatch them with his oar. After the fifth of these, he
turned back to his passengers and said, ‘Tell me why you need to get to the summit or no further.’

Sofia jumped up. ‘I knew we shouldn’t trust you.’

Pedro reached up and pulled her back, ‘Contessa – we need him.’

Two more dancers were paddling towards them, but Leto did not budge. ‘I let you in to save Concord from the First Apprentice, but how do I know your intentions aren’t worse?’

Pedro sighed. ‘The First Apprentice wasn’t lying when he said he was Bernoulli,’ he said.

Leto stared hard at the Rasenneisi. ‘Maestro Vanzetti, I take you for a reasonable fellow. I have myself seen what engineering feats you’re capable of, but—’

‘—such a proposition requires more than assertion, I agree. Did the Guild ever guess how Captain Giovanni stopped the Wave?’

‘There was speculation,’ said Leto warily. ‘Obviously he somehow disrupted the signal from the Molè.’

‘The needle on Monte Nero is a transmitter too. It was designed to act on a substance which exists between lunar and sublunar space—’

‘Called aether. This is Bernoullian eyewash.’

‘ Just what do you think is causing the cloacae to erupt? Is the water buoying us up empirical enough for you? The aether’s level rises and falls in a cycle lasting thousands of years. It’s the medium by which God communicates with His creation.’

‘I’m no theologian, Maestro Vanzetti, but even I know that the deity isn’t some fellow living in the clouds.’

‘God isn’t as close to humanity as we could wish. His influence depends on the aether level, and that’s been low since the last Messiah was killed. The needle doesn’t just confuse the signal; it destroys the medium in which it travels. Just as the Molè collected pain, so the Sangrail collects sin, concentrates it and sends it back heavenwards.’

‘If it’s truly a cycle, what does it matter how low it gets? It’ll rise when the tide turns, won’t it?’

‘Your Bernoulli proved the moon makes the tide turn, did he not? Well, what if you could stop the moon?’

Leto began to see. ‘The tide would cease.’

‘Exactly, General: the act that prompts the tide to turn is the Son of God’s self-sacrifice.’

The dancers were almost at their gondola now; Sofia grabbed the oar from Leto and did what was necessary.

Leto stared at her, then Pedro. ‘The Contessa’s son—’

‘That’s why your friend wants him: his blood is imbued with divinity. Killing him will be the ultimate sin, and amplified by the tripod and fired into Heaven, it will sever the connection for ever. No aether, no light, just us, alone on a spinning rock, exposed to the evils of unbounded hell.’

‘This is arrant nonsense,’ said Leto, desperately clinging to the crumbling foundations of sanity. ‘You’re asking me to believe the First Apprentice sacrificed the Concordian Empire in order to get her child.’

Sofia handed him back the oar. ‘It’s hard to credit, but you’ll get used to it.’

‘Can you explain the First Apprentice’s actions otherwise?’ Pedro asked. ‘This is a chain of reason, and the final link is that he means to degrade all men, Concordians first, to the level of beasts. The question now is: will you let him?’

*

The Cadets’ quarters were partially submerged, so they moored at a second-storey window and crawled inside.

‘A thousand secret tunnels riddle the Guild Halls. Some lead to the mount. Torbidda – the First Apprentice – showed me one once.’

The Rasenneisi knew no better but the derelict smell of the Guild Halls reminded Leto of how far his city had fallen. Webs
covered the nooks where he used to hide from the Fuscus twins, and dirt marked the doorknob of the Drawing Room. ‘This is where we perfected our art, Maestro Vanzetti.’

A few dancers who had found their way down the mountain by alternate routes were roaming the halls, so Sofia stood watch at the doorway as the two engineers searched through the schematics. ‘We don’t have time for sweet reminiscence, Spinther,’ she remarked acidly.

‘Patience, Contessa. If you want to bring down the needle, a little homework’s going to be necessary.’ He pulled out a drawing of the tripod and the needle and the engineers studied them together in silence for a moment.

‘Looks like your basketful of annunciators won’t suffice, Maestro.’

‘There’s no powder in these annunciators,’ said Pedro. ‘They’re beacons. We just have to land them on the weight-bearing parts of the tripod.’

‘Ah, very clever. Even so, look at this cross-section of the needle. There’s even a mass dampener to counteract the natural sway. We’ll need to weaken it first.’

‘True. Any ideas?’

Leto rummaged through one of the drawers, then threw Pedro a Whistler. ‘I know you’re familiar with these. Think you could tune it to emit a harmony that resonates exactly with the needle’s oscillation?’

‘I could try.’

Those tardy dancers still descending the mountain recognised their master as he ascended and made way by throwing themselves off the steps. Iscanno cried and struggled vainly against the First Apprentice’s embrace. The child knew that the thing carrying him was just a shell, an avatar of an old power that hated him. The disguise was worn threadbare now; the worm’s hold on this body was weakening and all the froth of mortal memory was spilling over. As the First Apprentice climbed the steps, assailed by the cold wind’s fury, he fancied he heard whispering in his ear:
Take nothing that will slow you down
. It was a girl’s voice, and a figment. No matter; this shell would not be needed for much longer.

As he came to the top another memory rose, of the first time the boy Torbidda had reached this, the summit of his ambitions. Waiting there had been praetorians, consuls, Apprentices – and, of course, the Molè itself, its doorway a vision of heaven, and hell.

They were all gone now, all swept away by Time’s attrition. The men, the Molè and even that scared boy. Today’s reception was certainly sparser: two young Engineers crouched beside the melan pool, so absorbed in their work that they did not notice his arrival.

‘Dear Leto. You don’t know when to quit.’ He had to shout over the wind’s howl. ‘I suppose that after all I’ve made you suffer you do deserve to witness my apotheosis.’

Leto stood up. ‘Your apotheosis. What of Concord?’

‘My word, you really
are
a patriot, aren’t you? If you saw this city as I see it you’d know the lives you wish to save are already dust.’

‘
Torbidda
– you can fight him!’

The First Apprentice’s cloying smile faded at being so addressed; he gathered himself. ‘Ah. So, General, you’ve realised that I’m not mad – but do you realise that Torbidda always planned to kill you? He knew it was inevitable from the moment you introduced yourself. He used you, but you were always expendable, in the same way Agrippina was expendable.’

‘You don’t know him: Torbidda killed Agrippina because he
had
to.’

‘Ah yes:
necessity
, a most malleable tool which can justify any crime. In my first life I made use of such arguments, but I no longer have any need of hypocrisy.’ He looked at the other engineer, who had not ceased his toil. ‘Who’s your guest?’

‘The Chief Engineer of Rasenna.’

‘Ah, the one who’s given us so much trouble? You too are welcome, Maestro Vanzetti. Alas, all three of us had poor timing: I was born too early, and you, dear children, were born too late. The reign of Engineers is over and another age is at hand: an age of blissful darkness with neither philosophy nor prayer, nor reason nor faith to complicate it.’

‘I can’t let you go through with this,’ said Leto.

‘You
can’t
? I’m afraid you have no authority here, little general—’

Bolos wound round Torbidda’s feet and he tumbled and dropped the baby, who rolled ahead of him, howling over the wind. He lay there staring at him in a kind of daze – had he not dreamt this? He looked at his hands doubtfully, almost expecting claws.

A young woman walked by and picked up the child. She looked back at him.

This was no dream. It was
her
.

‘Behold,’ he said, sitting up to pull the bolos apart, ‘the Handmaid of the Lord.’

Sofia backed away and handed Iscanno to Pedro. ‘Get him out of here. I’ll deal with this devil.’

‘No, Contessa,’ said Leto, drawing his sword. ‘That is my honour’

The First Apprentice got to his feet. ‘You don’t have the salt, Cadet.’

Leto circled carefully, his wounded leg making him awkward. He made a few tentative thrusts, but Torbidda did not even raise his hands to defend himself. ‘You must have forgotten that I saw you weep at your first blooding.’

‘I won’t cry for you,’ Leto promised, and he ran him through.

‘Uck! Well done, Cadet!’ With inhuman strength, he grasped Leto’s sword with one hand and his shoulder in the other. ‘The most important lesson of the Guild, the one you never learned, was to leave behind everything that might detain you.’ He stepped forward, pushing the blade deeper into his own chest, until he could hold Leto’s head in a vice-like grip. ‘Pain’s a luxury a philosopher can ill afford.’ He battered his forehead into Leto’s face, once, twice, three times, and when he released him, Leto simply crumpled.

Torbidda picked a tooth from his forehead and cast a glance at the others. The Contessa stood between him and the other engineer, who was busy affixing annunciators to the handles of the basket.

‘With you momentarily, Handmaid.’ He knelt and gently put his hand over Leto’s face. When he felt his breath, he rubbed until the boy’s face was covered in gore. ‘I have no laurels to give you, General, but here’s your mask of Triumph.’ Then he lifted Leto’s head and smashed it down. He lifted it again, but stopped as Leto’s eyes rolled back in his head.

The hum of annunciator wings made him look around: the Rasenneisi engineer was standing on the shattered base of the statue, holding the basket aloft.

‘Do it, Pedro!’ Sofia cried, and he released the basket. It lifted from the mount, slowly at first – then it was caught by the powerful wind and borne away.

Before the First Apprentice could react, Sofia threw herself at
him, riding a wind gust, twisting in its whirling embrace and hitting him like a cannonball. She knocked him off his feet and they landed and rolled together until Sofia came out on top, sitting astride his chest. His head whipped left and right with her blows until she paused for a moment to see where the basket was – giving the boy a chance to wriggle his arms free. He smashed his fists against the ground and the impact threw her off.

She let herself be carried on the wind so that she touched down gently, poised like a dancer on the balls of her feet. His fire had neither light nor grace in it, only power, only rage: he threw himself at her with no feinting, simply direct. She crossed both of her arms against his downward fists, tilting left so that he came off-balance. Her leg whipped out and slapped against his chest, rested momentarily and neatly kicked his howling jaw shut with an audible bite.

It worried her that he was not fighting more warily. Was he so strong? She felt her tension and made herself relax. Whatever she was in for, that wouldn’t help. She let her breath be guided by the rhythm of the dust-laden wind, so that when he leaped at her, she was ready.

He spun like a crazed Jinni, kicking on each turn, touching down momentarily, then springing at her, pounding at her. And she was water, so fluid that his fury was something she could slap down without getting burned. He stopped mid-turn and thrust his torso close. She crunched his nose but still he kept coming until she was forced to lock arms to keep him back. His grip was iron and she could not pull away without letting him closer.

Against her heel she felt a piece of masonry some deluded child had hauled up to the mount. She scooped it up with her foot, kneed it into the air while she pulled one arm free, caught it in her hand and slammed it into his jaw.

The blow snapped his head back, way too far, and she paused, a little shocked at what she had done.

An error. He suddenly grabbed her hair in both hands and whipping his head round like a mazza, slammed his forehead into hers.

Before she could rise, he kicked her in the ribs and something broke. ‘You seek to deny me my Lamb but the Wind too is my servant,’ he shouted, and ran – fast as thought – in the direction the basket had flown.

When she finally got her breath back, Sofia rolled over and saw Pedro crouch behind the shattered base, then take off running for the stairway. She turned back in time to see the First Apprentice leap and soar into the air. His body tumbled aimlessly like a leaf, but always upwards, and always towards the basket until at last he caught hold of it, smacked the annunciators to pieces and drifted back to the mount.

He landed beside her with an impact that shattered rock, held out the basket so she could see too – and then threw it aside with an oath. ‘Where is he?’

He grabbed her leg and turned with the wind that had whipped itself into hysteria. He turned her once and released, and she went with it, letting herself roll with the wind’s torque so that she landed on her feet. It was simple dizziness that made her tumble.

He advanced on her again and now there was no deflecting, Water or Wind. If she sidestepped one blow, there was another fist waiting, another rib-shattering kick. His knuckles tore her lip and something gave in her jaw. She landed on her back, a sharp stone piercing her side. She rolled off with an anguished groan.

He stared down at her pitilessly. ‘I can tear it out of you—’

She coughed up a mouthful of blood. ‘Get on with it then.’

‘Oh, I’m not going to rush this meal.’ He placed his heel on her cheek. ‘I’ve waited for you for so long, I shall savour it.’