The Malice (16 page)

The bird is colourful, golden feathers crown its head and edge its tail. A matching chain hangs around its neck, regal. The man opposite is no less gaudy.

‘You see,’ he explains to the crowd, ‘we talk to each other, she and I. Not with words. A universal language. A language of the soul.’

For two years, Massassi has searched. Going high and low. From the targets of obscure docuvids, to the offices of the best media wizards and thought doctors. Not one of them is like her. The desperate hunt for allies brings her here, to a live show. She does not believe the buzzwords about the performer, does not expect to see any real magic but still, she cannot help but hope.

The man points to a small skateboard mounted on a horizontal ramp. ‘Pollyanna, ride the board for us.’

The bird complies, drawing chuckles from the crowd.

Massassi scowls. She is looking for more than mere tricks.

‘Beautiful, no? But our bond allows for far more than play. What you are about to see is a level of power so secret that it has only been achieved by a few masters and only after years of training. I, the Great Suprendus, found these masters and convinced them to share their secrets. Today, I share them with you. For my next demonstration, the bond between Pollyanna and I will be tested to its ultimate limit when I place my life in her hands.’

As if on cue, the crowd gasps.

Massassi sits forward. A grain of truth is woven into his lies. Perhaps this one will be different.

‘Behold!’ booms the Great Suprendus. ‘The wheels of death!’ Curtains pull back, revealing a set of twenty-three wheels, clockwork armed for war. A gap, one metre wide and two metres high passes through the middle of them. The wheels leap cross the gap, one after the other, like spinning discus thrown by an unseen juggler.

The Great Suprendus throws a bright blue fruit through the gap. Only pulp comes through the other side.

Obligingly, the crowd gasps again.

‘Each of these twenty-three wheels is connected to a switch on this display. Each switch has a code next to it and each wheel, a corresponding code, written across its hub. As I walk between the wheels of death and I see the code, I will transmit it using only the power of my mind and command Pollyanna to press the appropriate switch. Only one wheel can be stopped at a time and so there is no margin for error. Now I will need a moment of silence to prepare my spirit and Pollyanna’s. Once we begin, can I ask that you do nothing to break my concentration.’

The man begins to hum softly, closing his eyes.

Massassi studies his true face, is not impressed by what she sees. The bird is not much better, it looks forward to the food it will be given when the trick is done.

The trick.

Massassi is tired of tricks.

As the Great Suprendus begins to walk towards the wheels, she raises her arm, letting the iris in her palm open enough for a point of light to come through. He does not notice, passing through the first three wheels while Pollyanna dutifully hops from switch to switch. The timing is excellent, a testament to hours of training. Impressive but not magical.

The needle of light tracks over the seats in front of her, over the backs of heads, passing up to the stage itself where it find its target.

Meanwhile, the crowd hold their breaths as Suprendus steps safely past wheels six, seven and eight.

Pollyanna opens her beak wide. ‘Stop!’ she screeches, then throws back her head and laughs.

The crowd laugh, too, assuming it is part of the show. Suprendus stops, his attention torn between the unexpected development and the blade held inches from his head, spinning, ready. ‘Now, Pollyanna, this is not the time for chatter.’

‘Shut up, you old fraud,’ the bird replies.

A few titters ripple through the audience.

‘Fraud? Fraud! I am—’

‘There is no bond, no magic. Admit it or I let this switch go.’

A few people glance at their neighbours. Not as many are smiling now.

‘Alright, I admit it.’

‘Say it,’ demands the bird, relentless.

‘There is no magic. There is no magic! Now, please, let us finish this.’

‘Not yet. Tell me about the masters.’

‘Of course, of course. As soon as I am free of the wheels.’

‘Now!’ Pollyanna screeches. ‘Now!’

‘I’ll tell you everything!’

And he does. The Great Suprendus did hear about a group of masters, he even sought them out but they never taught him. He knows little more but she has a lead. Despite her best efforts, a chink of hope appears in cynical armour.

Massassi leaves the confused crowd behind. They stare at the sobbing man and then at the bird, as it dances on the vital switch, swapping from foot to foot, cackling.

Vesper lingers in the doorway. ‘Hello?’

Eyes blink open, staring blankly. They blink again, slowly remembering how to focus.

‘Hello?’

Duet looks down at herself. ‘What is this?’ Thick straps hold her in place, tight around bare limbs. The fine hairs on her arms stand up, attentive to the cold. She pulls against her bonds, feels rigid steel beneath soft padding.

‘Hold on, I’ll get those.’ Vesper goes to her side, fiddles with the clasps. As soon as one releases, Duet wrenches a hand free, making Vesper cringe away while she works on the others.

Shaky hands make it difficult. Sweat soon beads at her brow, her face twisted in concentration and discomfort.

‘Neer had to reset and regraft your bones. It was … How are you feeling?’

‘My side aches. Differently.’

‘Different how?’

A second wrist is liberated. ‘Hard to say.’

‘Is it any better than before?’

‘It’s like the pain is more on the outside now than the inside.’

With both hands free, her ankles are quickly unshackled. Duet looks around. ‘Where’s my armour? And where are my weapons?’ She frowns at Vesper. ‘And where’s the sword?’

‘All our things are next door.’

‘Get them, we need them.’

‘Okay, I will. But first, I wanted to talk to you about something.’

Duet swings her legs over the side of the slab and puts a hand against Vesper’s chest. She looks down at it as the Harmonised propels her back towards the door. ‘Sword first. Chat later.’

Vesper stumbles away out of sight, mumbling apologies.

Duet shakes her head, sighs, then takes in the surroundings. Specimens float in all manner of jars, pickling slowly. Her mouth turns down as she struggles to identify the species of donor.

Arms full, Vesper returns to the room. The sword sleeps on her back once more, weighing her down. ‘Here we are,’ she says, dumping armour and weapons and packs on the floor. ‘That should be everything.’

Duet inspects her kit carefully, suspicious. ‘It looks in order.’ Vesper’s lips part, hesitant words not quite ready to emerge. She scares them off with her own. ‘Never leave the sword unguarded again.’

‘It was only next door.’

‘That doesn’t matter.’

‘There isn’t even anyone down here apart from Neer, and she’s a friend.’

‘Is she? How long have you known her? How well do you know these tunnels? Do you know who comes and goes? Are you sure we’re safe? Would you bet our lives on it?’ Vesper’s head shakes with every question. ‘Never again, you understand?’

‘I won’t. I’m sorry.’

‘The Seven don’t care about apologies. Nor do the infernals.’

A little colour finds its way to Vesper’s cheeks. ‘I don’t know what you want me to say.’

‘I don’t want you to say anything!’ The outburst leaves her suddenly tired. She rests her head in her hands and time begins to drift.

When she looks up again, the kid is running up and down the outside corridor and Vesper sits in the corner, glum. With one foot she hooks the medical bag and scoops it off the floor. Pills are quickly dispensed into an eager palm and popped.

She wipes her mouth, notices the girl is watching her. ‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Go on. Spit it out.’

‘I …’

‘Go on!’

‘Neer thinks you’re going to die soon. Because you’re a Harmonised and because the other you is gone.’ Duet lets the medicine bag slip from her fingers. ‘She says you’re going to, er, I don’t know how to say it.’

Duet’s voice is quiet: ‘Yes, you do.’

‘You’re going to get worse, in your head.’

‘How long?’

‘She doesn’t know. A few months, no more than a year.’

Throats become tight, awkward. Skittering hooves slow and the kid peers in at the two silent people. Duet stares at the floor, not seeing. Slowly, her eyes close.

Vesper moves to where she sits, wrapping her in gentle arms. Eyes squeezed ever tighter, she presses her head into Vesper’s shoulder.

For a while, they stay that way.

The kid bleats once, pauses, bleats again. When neither respond he runs off.

Duet wipes at her eye and pulls back. ‘Thank you.’

‘Listen, Neer couldn’t promise anything but she thinks she might be able to stop things getting worse.’

‘What’s the catch?’

‘Time. We’d have to stay here.’

There is a pause, then the Harmonised shakes her head. ‘No. The sooner we leave here, the better.’

*

The Demagogue’s palace has gone through several incarnations. Shortly after the infernal tide first swept through New Horizon, the building collapsed, killing many of the occupants and putting a permanent crick in the Demagogue’s neck. Repairs are carried out quickly by a mix of slaves and demons, fear-driven and unskilled. Many die to complete the project, as much through incompetence as the design of the foreman.

At first, the Demagogue is pleased. It has little experience of buildings or aesthetics but is certain that if the Usurper has a palace, it should have one too. A larger one.

Two problems emerge. Both come from Witterspear, New Horizon’s half-breed chamberlain. Witterspear talks as most breathe, regular and unconscious. One day in court a stray comment is made, the tail end of a dull conversation.

‘Of course, the Fallen Palace is nothing like this one.’

From his high basin, the Demagogue glowers, demanding explanation. It had thought the two were identical.

‘I … well, for one thing, the Fallen Palace leans at an angle, like this.’ The chamberlain demonstrates. ‘And for another, it’s bigger.’ Juices bubble in the folds of the Demagogue’s belly and Witterspear tries to backpedal. ‘Not much bigger! The difference is marginal, barely noticeable.’

The next day, Witterspear is charged to make the Demagogue’s towers taller than the Usurper’s, to lean at a more acute angle and to be grander in scale.

More suffer, dragging materials up by hand and claw, pouring sweat into the growing structure. As soon as a new phase of the build eclipses the home of the Green Sun, it starts to collapse. Some say this is due to Witterspear’s incompetence. Witterspear says it is because the Usurper is ruler of all and, therefore, no palace can be greater. The Demagogue accepts this until the Usurper is ended.

While some infernals mourn the passing of their monarch the Demagogue orders a new round of building. Shortly after it crumbles, Witterspear’s head is added to the scaffolds.

New chamberlains come with designs and plans. Their heads line up together, mute testimony to the Demagogue’s displeasure.

Through this legacy, Samael strides. A strange patchwork of history. No one wall matches the other, any sense of the original’s cohesion buried in a mess of brick and metal, of glue and gaps. There are many holes in the Demagogue’s palace. A mix of struts and supports crowd in the spaces, eclectic, straining to keep the upper floors from gravity’s embrace.

Trophies and pictures are thrown up to an alien design, some at angles, some upside down. Several partially obscure each other, creating a collage, accidental. Some of the trophies are still alive; once displayed pride of place in the Demagogue’s court, now relegated to hallways or alcoves. They are fed when there is food to spare, and when the staff remember.

His guide leads Samael along passages that wind and coil like ugly knots of string. Windows are everywhere, on inner and outer walls, making little cuts in the floor and great gashes in the ceiling, melted blobs of glass that tint the world in surreal colours. Through these he sees abandoned sections of the palace, unfinished. Stairs that lead nowhere, doorways that open onto nothing.

Scout pads alongside him, communicating unease through linked essence and a heavy tail.

One of the exhibits comes to life as he goes past. A young man, ribs proud and easy to count, eyes and cheeks sunken, hollow. ‘Are you?’ he says with the greatest of urgency.

His guide waves a hand, dismissive, and keeps going. To her dismay, the exhibit continues to talk.

‘Are you?’

Samael stops, annoying the guide who is forced to wait for him. ‘Am I what?’

His mouth flaps, fishlike. ‘Are you?’

‘Come,’ says the guide, gesturing him to follow. ‘It is not wise to keep the Demagogue waiting.’

He nods, and they continue on their way, leaving the man on his plinth. Samael is nearly at the passage’s end when the man finds the words.

‘Are you real?’

This time he does not stop. Of course he is real!

The man sees something recognisable in Samael’s armour despite the battered plates and grotesque construction. ‘Are you a knight?’

His question hangs in the air, unanswered, ignored.

They pass through a set of doors that are sealed to the walls, forever open. It is unclear whether the gesture is symbolic or just apathetic.

As he walks, Samael wonders. Is he a knight? He is not. But is he? Should he be? The thought troubles him. The idea too resonant to put away.

The last question reaches him though Scout’s ears. The Dogspawn hanging back as, in truth, he wishes to himself.

‘Are you going to honour your oath?’

He has never taken an oath. His creator did not need oaths to secure his loyalty. He was made to obey. But the question joins the others, swirling in his thoughts, an indigestible chorus.

The Demagogue’s court chamber is made entirely of glass. A vast quantity of it, stolen over many years and fused together into a huge sphere of irregularity, thick in places, thin in others. The chamber makes nightmares of anything viewed through or reflected in it. It sits dangerously on top of the palace, an ugly bauble, clashing magnificently with its messy surroundings.

Within the court are half-breed servants and demi-lords, keeping to the edges. A huddle of lesser infernals occupy a closer orbit, a colourful collection of shells, mostly animal. The Demagogue has forced them into regular essence contact over the years, asserting its dominance. The result is a gradual eroding of boundaries, of identities. Homogenising possible rivals into a simplistic mob.

Towering over them all is the Demagogue itself, a giant mound of blubber bobbing in its basin. Its arms are long wizened sticks capped with spindly twig fingers and its legs atrophied stumps. The shell’s original head flops to one side, purple, like a wonky pimple.

Three humans sit on a bench before it, facing towards the entrance, still as statues. They are the voices of the Demagogue, living mouthpieces for New Horizon’s infernal ruler. The first man is thick-limbed, well fed and full of beard, the second, young and supple, hairless. The third a tiny girl, wrapped in black.

Samael is brought before them.

Having carried out her duty, his guide makes a quick retreat.

The Demagogue reaches out with a stretched finger to stab the head of the tiny girl. Essence jolts into her, animating, and eyes glare with inhuman intensity.

‘What, what, what? What is it? Is it from the Palace of the Fallen? Another one?’

The girl’s chin juts towards another part of the room and he realises he is not the first to be invited. Hangnail stands painfully apart from the others, its body still, its essence radiating displeasure. The battered shell of a pink-skinned cat stalks around its legs, trying for Hangnail’s attention, tugging at the infernal’s ragged coat.

‘But wait!’ says the girl, looking at Samael once more. ‘It was not there when we spilt into the world. It is not a challenger. It is not even of the Jade and Ash. An ashling at best. Which of us do you serve, ashling?’

His response is automatic. ‘I do not serve.’

‘It does not serve? It will learn. It will see.’

‘Enough of this. I must go.’

‘Must it? Must it go? Where does it go? Why does it go? It will speak or it will be made to speak.’

The court tenses, prepared to do the Demagogue’s bidding. Hangnail’s coat of skins twitches, ready to open, though on who it is hard to say.

It is almost impossible to lie to an infernal, Samael knows this. He chooses a truth, hopes it will satisfy. ‘I go to find the sea.’

‘Later, it goes. First, it waits. Waits on my pleasure.’

‘Why?’

Everything goes still, even the infernal cat, wary of what will come.

‘Why, it says? Why? Because I wish it. You are the second to come here, not the last. A gathering we will have. Until then, the ashling will wait.’

He has no choice, there are too many for him to take alone.

If Hangnail and he were to fight together, they may have a chance. But he does not trust Hangnail to support him. Does not wish to throw his existence away, at least, not cheaply. So he waits, wondering, questions loud in his mind.

What am I?

Ashling? Knight? King?

Scout begins to growl, turning back to stare at the doorway. He senses it too. The coming of new infernals, familiar. A taste, powerful, utterly repellent and lots of similar, lesser ones.

He waits for them while thoughts swirl, storm-like, and his hand moves to the hilt of his sword.

*

In her dreams, Vesper falls. Ever faster, tumbling into the void. Sometimes she rushes towards it, sometimes it towards her, hungry. There are other details, trivial, changing from one night to the next, that Vesper forgets. Only the falling is constant, and the inevitability of impact.

She wakes in surprise, in a sweat. Across from the bed, leaning in a corner, is the sword, its eye fixed on her.

It does not look happy.

Vesper rubs at her face. For a moment the room seems too solid, too … substantial? In her heart, she is surprised to find it still here.

Slowly, an eye closes, glaring while wings curl, returning to their normal position.

She sits up, stretches. The room is just a room again, the sword, a sullen sleeping thing.

Vesper turns her blanket back into a coat, pulling it on. Then she picks up the sword by its scabbard, mindful not to make contact with the sword itself. She is not sure what will happen if she touches the hilt but expects it would be bad. She remembers her father’s fear of it, remembers that, unlike her, he was chosen by The Seven. For the first time, the reality of her situation strikes. Someday soon, she will have to use the sword and it may very well be her end.