The Broken Isles (Legends of the Red Sun 4) (9 page)

The Okun, the most hideous and wonderful thing they had ever seen, was now reduced to hundreds of fragments. For days at a time, each of the group set about trying to establish whether or not
anything could be gleaned from these pieces. They took detailed sketches of the way things slotted together, listed potential materials that these might have been made from, and how certain parts
reacted to substances from their own world. But they were ultimately dumbfounded by the intricacies of its body. It was, quite simply, too much for them to understand.

All except the shell.

The shell was not all that distant from the chitinous exoskeletons found throughout the Archipelago, but this seemed more tactile, flexible and impenetrable. They decided they wanted to
re-create it and Lim, after Jeza aided him, began to use a particularly large relic they had discovered to cast crude moulds to regenerate certain sections.

Reflecting on the process, Jeza now realized she’d loved working with Lim. He was so passionate and cared deeply about what she thought, what she felt. He encouraged her line of thought as
much as his own and he trusted her opinions and did not dismiss one of her suggestions, no matter how wild it was. He was sensitive and she was intoxicated by his Varltung accent, and his broad
face. Perhaps, looking back as she did now, she realized she had possessed deep feelings for him. He was special in a way no man had ever been. Such feelings weren’t comparable to those she
had for Diggsy, of course – that was based on raw passion. Lim never seemed interested in any of that kind of stuff, never mentioned girls or sex. Lim’s energy was funnelled entirely
into his research. He loved discovery. She loved him for being ever elusive. Despite her scientific ways, she could never quite work Lim out.

Why did I never say anything at the time?

*

In the afternoon sunlight, which spilled through a large circular window on the top floor of Factory 54, the group took the Okun’s dark, glossy exoskeleton out of storage
and laid it out across the workbench.

First they separated it into several large sections, sifted through the pieces, deciding which section to concentrate on, before settling upon one of the breastplates.

‘It has to be this,’ Jeza said. ‘It’ll sit over people’s most vital areas . . .’

‘Speak for yourself,’ Coren smirked, grabbing his crotch as if to hammer the point home.

‘Idiot,’ Jeza sighed. Then, to the others, ‘It’ll sit over the major organs: the heart, the lungs, the parts that can’t be repaired on the battlefield.’

Jeza lit several lanterns while Coren and Diggsy began to assemble the relics and tools. She fetched the notebooks from Lim’s unused room and, for the next hour, they began to work through
pages and pages of his detailed instructions, most of them simply on how to operate the relics.

‘You OK?’ Diggsy asked. ‘You look pretty upset.’

‘I’m just concentrating,’ she replied. Had Lim’s death really affected her this much? It was a strange process, following his words; it was like having him there and
alive once again, but he was dead – she
had
to keep reminding herself.
I have to let him go.

Two relics the size of industrial equipment were dragged to sit either side of the breastplate specimen. The relics were called
Haldorors
, ‘true of word’ devices – they
translated materials and retranslated them – or, in some cases, replicated them, in whatever shape or form was desired by the person setting the relics. The units, almost as tall as Jeza,
were crafted from copper and silver, and possessed intricate ancient lettering that none of them had ever seen in a book, let alone understood.

Jeza made tweaks to the devices according to Lim’s notes on other creatures, moving the second of them about two armspans further down the workbench, so they were no longer opposite each
other. She altered the frequencies and the measurements on the sixteen extra dials they had built into it, mainly by trial and error.

The relic was activated by placing a brass cylinder the size of her arm into the slot at the back, a process that was not immune to Coren’s crude innuendo. Diggsy switched on the second
device and they all watched as a web of purple light spread out across the exoskeleton and hovered in the air above. The little crackles of energy never ceased to impress her; they signified
ancient knowledge being reused, a line that spanned tens of thousands of years. No one spoke during the process, they were too focused.

Exactly as Lim’s theory described, a second replica of the breastplate began to fade into existence alongside. It finally materialized whole, in its own separate web of purple light, and
when they were quite sure the process had finished, Jeza shut off one device, Diggsy the other, and soon all that was left was a dull hum, the faint smell of charred leather and a little smoke as
if someone had blown out a match.

Jeza and Coren moved over to the cloned piece and inspected it, waiting for the thin, pale-blue smoke to dissipate. Coren prodded it, first with a metal rod to see if it was genuine, if it was
physically there and not some illusion; then when he was more confident, he jabbed it with his finger. ‘Still warm,’ he said, and waited a moment longer while Diggsy and Pilli dragged
the two
Haldorors
out of the way and against the wall.

Eventually, Coren picked up the original breastplate in one hand and the newly ‘translated’ one in his other. The others watched him, waiting. He moved them this way and that and
wafted them around in the air, smiling. ‘Same light weight, same feel.’

‘Guess Lim’s tricks never fail to work,’ Diggsy said.

‘Is this what we want to show the military?’ Coren asked. He placed the breastplates back down while everyone turned to Jeza. They waited for her to speak, a new phenomenon for her,
and she had to admit not entirely unpleasant.

‘We need to move our
perceived
roles on from spurious cultists – and in fact a bit of a motley crew to boot – to something more professional and businesslike. To most
laymen, we might as well be casting runes or muttering dark spells.’

‘Go on . . .’ Diggsy urged.

‘Now we know we can do this,’ she continued, ‘we should try to take things further, to show them what we think a more complete piece of soldier’s armour might look like.
I think we should try our best to show the finished item. First we write to that albino commander. Get him here, see if he’s interested in the concept. Now’s the time. Later when we
have refined this and he sees what we can sell him, he’ll have no trouble opening the Empire’s coffers.’

‘Now you’re talking,’ Coren said, and slapped her on the back.

Diggsy gave her a warm smile and placed his arm around her in that casual, cool way of his, and she couldn’t help but notice Pilli turning away now to fiddle with something on the
workbench.

She was back in Villjamur, back with Rika.

The warm sunlight falling through her opulent curtains was enough to tell her that this wasn’t quite real, though she didn’t know why. Bright coloured wall hangings and bed sheets,
all the books she could wish for, trinkets and toys littered the floor. Everything seemed so pristine. Too pristine. As ever, there was frantic activity outside their bedroom door, which she took
to be something to do with her father or his entourage.

Sometimes, when she heard such noises, she would close her eyes and hope that he’d come in – if just for a moment – to see how she and her sister were getting on, what they
were up to, how they were feeling. It rarely happened, though. And yet . . . now she thought of it, Rika wasn’t actually there. Her bed was a mess, so she had obviously been around recently,
but she couldn’t see her anywhere. Eir called out; no reply came. She was utterly alone.

Sighing, Eir stretched fully, pushed herself up, out of bed, and walked to the windows, her legs feeling heavy. The whole movement seemed such an effort. This was the second time she realized
something wasn’t right: her black hair was much shorter than before.

Pulling back the curtains, light flooded the room, and she squinted to see the rooftops of Villjamur. Always mesmerizing, always awe-inspiring, she could look down on that city a thousand times
and never become complacent with its complex, labyrinthine layout. Each time she looked over the many levels of the city, over the winding rows and dreamlike spires sometimes lost in the mist, her
imagination would flare happily.

A garuda flew by, drifting in an arc over the city – no, it had turned and was heading towards her. The bird-soldier glided in, his vast wings extended, his bronze armour glimmering in the
morning sunlight. It swooped to her window and, with a thud, gripped the window frame to one side.

He had a panicked look on his face. He tried to sign something to her with his one free hand but she couldn’t understand him.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, trying to climb up to open the window.

But it wasn’t any good.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked again. ‘What’s wrong?’

*

A jab to her ribs lifted her from the dream. She opened her eyes in a cold, dim chamber, with the wind rattling something outside and a man to her right.

To be fair, she didn’t mind the man at all. Randur looked back at her with a soft gaze, his dark hair falling in front of his face. He was propped up on one elbow, wearing only a thin
cream tunic which was a size too large for his lithe frame.

‘You were dreaming,’ he told her.

Slowly she realized she was now awake, and curled in towards him. ‘I . . . It felt like that, even though I was asleep,’ she said. ‘It felt like I
knew
.’

‘You’re a lucky thing,’ he said. ‘If you know you’re dreaming, I’d have made myself imagine I was lying somewhere a great deal warmer than this ice
palace.’

‘You could always put more clothes on,’ she replied, rubbing her eyes.

‘Nah, I don’t like it.’ He waved a hand. ‘I’m from the islands. We sleep with little on – preferably nothing. It’s much more comfortable that
way.’

‘You were always bed-hopping on the islands.’

‘True, but I’m a one-woman man now.’ He laid back down and moved in to kiss her shoulder. When he held his lips there, his warm breath was delightfully sensual on her skin. It
seemed a world away from her dream. ‘You should know that.’

His routine never grew old to her, even though they had been together for quite some time. The playful words always drew her out of her reflective moods. These days his charm was one of the few
things that brought a smile to her lips, and she knew all too well how rare it was to be happy in this city.

‘What were you dreaming about?’ he asked.

She gave him a summary, dwelling on the garuda at the end. ‘The garuda was trying to tell me something, yet couldn’t. It appeared urgent, as if he had a message for me.’

‘Perhaps he was telling you to put more logs on the fire,’ Randur replied, and wafted a hand in the general direction of the smouldering ashes in the grate.

She slapped his chest. ‘I’m serious. It felt . . . wrong somehow. It was very disturbing.’

She looked across to him; he was now lying face down, his head in the pillow. With two fingers she brushed his hair from his face. ‘What will you do today?’

‘Same as usual. Lounge around, wait for a decision to be made. Maybe head out into the city, see what’s happening there. Might see if I can get some decent clothes.’

It was frustrating for them both, she had to admit, not to have much direction now. For all the adventures they’d had on the way to Villiren, and for all it had changed both her and her
sister, their arrival in the city had not been what she expected. Instead of every day being a matter of survival, now their time was spent on politics and bureaucracy, and Randur was chafing at
all the conversation and lack of action.

And then there was the issue of his mother, the very reason he had gone to Villjamur in the first place. He spoke little of her these days, given all that had happened; Eir knew he thought of
her often though. She could tell from his unusual silences.

Randur lifted his head to look at her. ‘You don’t have to feel sorry for me. I like doing nothing. We get fed, and I can bask in the glory of escorting two of the most important
ladies in the Empire around the city. The soldiers in the Night Guard seem to have welcomed me on board after I told them of our travels.’

‘What
exactly
did you tell them . . . ?’

‘Well, I might have embellished the story a little. You have to with those types – they’re as competitive as you get. Besides, they expect it.’

‘Do they, indeed. Well, I might have a word with the commander and see if he can make use of you.’

‘Oh, for Bohr’s sake,’ he said cheerily. ‘I’m all right – and you’re not my mother.’

The final word hung in the air just a little too long for her liking.

‘Well I’d certainly like to see more of the city. The commander has shown me just a little, and there are people out there who could do with our help.’

‘But . . . you’re one of the Jamur sisters,’ Randur said. ‘You should be in here, arranging the affairs of state or something.’

‘After all the lectures you gave me on snobbery, Randur Estevu, you’re the last person I’d expect to say such things.’

*

Brynd entered the room with a plan in mind. Lady Eir was seated in one of the few regal-looking rooms that once belonged to the portreeve. Amidst the smoke of incense, she sat
on a cushioned chair with her knees drawn up to her chest. When Brynd approached she barely turned away from the oval window that overlooked the harbour. A brazier burned to one side, offering just
a little warmth, and he stood by it to enjoy the glow.

‘There isn’t much to look at, I’m afraid,’ Brynd said.

Eir looked up at him. She was wearing another plain outfit, not one usually associated with such a powerful family, with a blanket pulled over her shoulders. Though still young, she no longer
looked as innocent as he remembered in Villjamur. When people grew older sometimes there was a look about them: they could seem more resigned to their fate, or simply tired of life, no matter what
their age. Right now Eir seemed to be a little of both.