The Malice (8 page)

Duet’s voice is a chorus at her back. ‘Wait!’

But she doesn’t. A sudden burst of energy takes her through the broken door, onto the streets and away. She ignores the sword, heavy on her back, ignores the fatigue.

‘Wait,’ she calls. ‘It’s me. It’s Vesper.’

At the sound of her voice, the kid stops and looks round.

Vesper slows, crouches, opens her arms.

Little hooves skip across stones. Bleating becomes lighter and the kid throws himself into Vesper’s embrace.

‘There you are. I’m so sorry, I thought I’d lost you.’

The kid rubs his head against the girl’s. Lips clamp gently around an ear.

‘Come on, we can’t stay here.’

She gets up to find Duet towering over her. Their faces are hidden behind visors but she can guess enough from the two pairs of eyes. She is not afraid though. Compared to her father, their disapproving looks seem amateurish.

‘Are we going back to that house?’

‘No –’

‘– We have to keep ahead –’

‘– Of the search parties –’

‘– And get to –’

‘– The port.’

‘Genner said help would come.’

Duet takes her arm, talking as they go. ‘Help will –’

‘– Find us.’

‘Or the First will,’ adds the injured one, bitter.

Troops spread through the city, a net of people, threading between buildings. Crawler Tanks speed down the Tradeway, joining others already squatting at the port’s entrance. Sky-ships move in random patterns, combing the air.

Harmonised, girl and goat run, hide, run some more.

Slowly, the trap closes around them.

There is no longer time for care and Duet sprints, half dragging, half carrying Vesper between her. The girl tries to keep up, tries to help, but weary legs stumble, unable to find their rhythm again.

Nearby, a door opens and from its shadow, a man gestures, inviting them in.

They take their chances, bundling inside.

Vesper and the kid collapse gratefully into a corner. Duet does not have such luxury. One of her places herself between the stranger and her charge while the second leans against the wall, sword in one hand, the other resting on her injured chest.

The man closes the door quickly, then turns, tanned hands open, empty. ‘You’ll be safe here for a while. Don’t worry, I’m not your enemy.’

‘We’ll be –’

‘– The judge –’

‘– Of that.’

‘Yes,’ the man replies. ‘Perhaps this will help.’ A bag is placed on a table. Duet investigates, finds supplies. Rations, medicine, money, tools, all marked with the seal of the Winged Eye.

She frowns. ‘You are –’

‘– Of the Lenses?’

‘No. But these things once belonged to one. She would want you to have them.’

Against Vesper’s back the sword begins to stir.

‘Then who –’

‘– Are you?’

‘As I said, I am not your enemy. But I am not with the Empire.’

Duet raises her blades.

The sword hums louder.

‘Is this your … judgement?’

‘For infernals –’

‘– There is only –’

‘– One judgement.’

‘Are you certain? You do not … appear so. How can you be? The very words you speak are not your own. They are simplistic phrases designed to keep you simple. Only one judgement? If that is so, why are The Seven not here in person? Why do the Empire’s people turn away from Their leadership? If there is only one judgement for … my kind. Why was I asked to come here by yours?’

Almost imperceptibly, Duet’s sword wavers.

‘You are called a Harmonised. You are an attempt at a deeper union, a different kind of existence. I understand this … need. This desire to be greater than your physical self allows. Through me, you could experience complete fusion. It is not too late. Lower your weapons and I will give you want you truly want.’

The First takes a step towards Vesper. Duet does not move, one of her blocking the way, the other remaining by the wall.

Duet raises a pistol in her spare hand, points it at the First as it advances. ‘We will not –’

The sentence hangs, unfinished.

Duet looks to her partner, still by the wall, silent. ‘Stay with me!’

The First shakes its head. ‘But you are not … together on this. You’ve never truly been together. You are a pretence of oneness. You are a mockery of it.’

The pistol begins to charge. ‘Shut up!’

‘You would rather fall to violence than admit the truth of your position? How sad.’

She squeezes the trigger. But the First has already stepped aside. Powder explodes from the back wall as she swings the gun round trying to track the infernal.

There is a blur of movement, too fast for the human mind to follow, and a broken gun falls to the floor. Moments later, Duet joins it, groaning in the dust.

The First turns to the other half of the Harmonised. ‘And you? What is your … judgement?’

She looks at the trembling girl and her dazed counterpart. ‘I don’t know.’

‘But you do. Allow yourself the thought and it will come.’

Her blade lowers. ‘She’s yours. But I want what you promised.’

Vesper chokes back a sob.

‘And you shall have it.’ The First crouches by Vesper, leans forward until only inches separate them. ‘You are lost. How could you not be? That broken … relic cannot help you. It is a reminder of something dead, nothing more. Give it up to me and I will let you go.’

Vesper shakes her head, the movement slight, fearful.

The First reaches out to touch the girl’s face. The kid flinches and Vesper tries to retreat. But there is nowhere to go, all she can do is twist away, hiding her face from the inevitable. The First is suddenly presented with Vesper’s back and the sword strapped to it.

Humming builds to a sudden roar and metal wings part, flaying the plastic that covers them.

An eye opens.

In the space between the First and the sword, air ignites, burning blue and angry.

The infernal staggers back, stunned, one arm across its face.

Vesper drops the kid and reaches into her pocket. The action swings the sword away, forcing it to glare at an innocent wall.

‘So this is the Malice,’ says the First, swaying as it speaks. ‘I had hoped for more … nuance. You are a tool without a user, a shoe without a foot. You are … nothing.’

In a shaking hand, Vesper raises the gun. The trigger pulls too easily, activating with little more than a touch. Light pokes a hole through the First’s body. Blood spurts and essence hisses.

The First lowers its arm, staring at the new wound. When it speaks, there is no trace of pain in its voice. ‘Our … agreement … stands. Hold her … here.’ With infinite dignity, the infernal sinks to its knees.

Duet levers herself from the wall, crossing the room with sudden speed. Her sword flicks out, making to disarm.

Too late, Vesper realises the threat. The flat of the Harmonised’s blade smacks the gun from her hand. Vesper wants to run but Duet raises the sword again, threatening.

‘Don’t move. There is—’

The tip of a blade protrudes from her stomach, sudden, cutting her off.

‘– Only one judgement.’

Duet looks down to find her counterpart awake, sword in hand. Last words are gargled through blood, then she falls, beating the First to the floor.

As it sinks down onto its back, body weakening, the First’s eyes remain steady, locked on Vesper’s. ‘I will … remember … this … You … cannot—’

Duet’s sword comes down, silencing. ‘I said: shut up!’

The statement echoes in the bare room, hollow.

She stabs the First again just to be sure but cannot bring herself to look at the other body. Vesper does. She picks up her gun and points, watching intently. Duet’s chest is still, like a lake on a calm day. Lifeless. She puts the gun away.

Outside, soldiers move from door to door, knocking, searching, not far now.

Vesper’s gaze remains on the two corpses. ‘What are we going to do?’

Duet doesn’t answer. Her sword droops and blood runs down the blade. Vermilion tears, dripping, heavy.

Off-colour rain patters on the tilting square. At its edges, things gather. In the centre of the square is a hole, known as the Pit of Whispers, and within the hole lives a lonely creature, all limbs and barely covered bones. The denizens of the Fallen Palace call it Slate. Little sense rattles within its hollow skull but even Slate knows when there is to be a display.

Too stupid to run, Slate presses its face against the dark wall of the pit and, momentarily, the world goes away.

At the top of the pit, the Man-shape waits, Samael by its side, while, in factions, the infernals cross the square to meet them.

First come the Felrunners, carried on an abundance of weeping legs. Their Lord stands foremost among them, proud. Raised to power by the Usurper and gifted with a crown of green muscle, it is as close to popular as any of the contenders.

Next comes Hangnail, alone, head studded with claws, its coat of skins flapping in the wind, ragged.

Then, a small girl riding a large Usurperkin comes: the Backwards Child, stretched neck coiled like a serpent, half-breed followers lumbering behind.

Lastly, comes Gutterface. Sometimes called the Unspeakable, even its peers do not care to look at it for long. Swarms of the lesser infernals infest its many pockets and crevices. An army of dysfunctional young, suckling at a hundred teats.

When all have arrived at the pit’s edge, the Man-shape reaches down, finding one of Slate’s many appendages and lifting it high. One by one, the others copy the gesture, until Slate is lifted slightly off the ground, murmuring and clicking to itself.

Whenever infernals converse there is danger. Even if both parties are peaceful, essences can mix, desires swapping or implanting themselves. No one challenger dares outright confrontation and yet, to end the stalemate, each needs to display its power to the others. A good enough display could convince the others to submit, giving the winner the infernal throne without conflict.

Slate’s essence is weak, allowing other infernals to make contact without risk. They use it as a conduit, a patchy curtain that divides like gauze, keeping them apart but allowing communication.

With careful timing the infernals bring the limb they hold deeper into their shells, until it connects with the essence inside them. Now, when any of them forms a thought, it travels into Slate, into the pit and the others can read the echoes.

Inevitably, there is posturing. Each trying to appear bigger than the other, probing for changes, hoping that time will have made new weaknesses. The Man-shape allows this to happen, keeps itself small, unreadable. It suspects that Lord Felrunner is ready to make its bid for power and that Gutterface has a secret it struggles to contain. The other two give little away.

All share a moment of pleasure that the other challengers have not dared come. Then the Man-shape presses itself onto Slate’s essence.

‘I was made to serve …’ the Man-shape begins.

‘Lesser.’

‘Taste.’

‘Evres.’

‘Us.’ Swirl the responses.

‘… And for much time, I served the master.’ It notes the ripple of unease the reminder of the Usurper still brings. ‘Where the Green Sun blazed, there is only void. Which of you will fill it?’

Four answers come, declarations of suitability.

‘So you say. But the master did not trifle with words, the master took and others trembled. Now a new master comes, one that will take, and change, and wipe us away.’

Questions come thick and fast and Slate’s essence stretches dangerously thin. The Man-shape casts a shadow between them, the image of their new enemy.

‘It is called the Yearning and it gathers itself upon the Breach. I pledge myself and the master’s throne to whoever can end it.’

There is a pause, quicker than the beat of a hummingbird’s wing, an eternity between essences. Then there is noise. Lord Felrunner accepts first, the others immediately after.

Slate is discarded roughly, falling back into the pit while infernals scuttle, stride and shuffle away. Already, plots are forming, plans of attack, dreams of victory and what follows.

On the inside, the Man-shape permits itself a smile and wonders if any will return.

*

Vesper stares at the two bodies, her gun shakily pointing at them. Neither stir. ‘What are we going to do?’ she asks repeatedly. The question is directed as much to herself as to Duet, who has not spoken for too long.

Eventually, the gun lowers and Vesper’s breathing calms. She goes to the bag of supplies, searching for inspiration, nudging the kid’s head out of the way as he rummages for food. Most of the objects are identifiable, if not familiar. She touches the block of Skyn, the flexicast and nine different tab containers, presumably medicines of some kind. She finds a mutigel pillow, some water, some powdered food and a set of tools. One reminds her of the Navpack her father used to let her play with. She still remembers his face when she broke it.

She picks up the new Navpack and asks it to activate.

The Navpack does not recognise her voice.

‘Activate!’ she repeats, desperation making the end of the word rise.

On her back, the sword begins to hum.

Vesper spins round, reaching for her gun, but the First remains where it fell, eyes still staring, glassy.

The sword’s hum rises sharply, pointedly, then stops.

With a happy ping, the Navpack activates.

A map shines onto the floor, showing Sonorous from above. The outer wall a thick dark line, curving like an inverted pair of horns, and, within it, a grid of roads, packed either side with little squares, countless. Vesper sees her location represented by a white dot that flashes excitedly. She taps it with a finger and the map zooms in, showing the house they stand in, the neighbouring ones and the criss-cross of alleys nearby.

Beneath them, purple, is another network. Passageways made for secret journeys, known only to the agents of the Winged Eye, entrances scattered about the island.

Vesper’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘This is it. Duet. Duet! I think I’ve found a way out.’

‘It doesn’t …’ she begins, but there is no-one to finish her sentence. She chokes back a sob.

Using the Navpack as a guide, Vesper moves across the room. The view zooms, scaling itself exactly to the space. A purple square of light overlays an incongruous corner. The girl runs to it, followed by the kid, who shares the excitement if not the understanding.

Fingers search for a gap or a handle, find none. Fumbling becomes frantic, a droplet of sweat falls from her hair, dampening dirt. Then, for no discernible reason, a square of plastic pops up, raising two inches proud of the floor. Vesper grabs it, heaves.

Cheeks turn from red to purple, muscles burn and the panel begins to lift.

With an excited bleat, the kid gets his head into the gap and pushes.

Girl and panel flip over, landing on their backs.

The kid tips forward, hooves scrabbling over empty air. For a moment he wobbles, precarious, then falls into the newly revealed hole.

There is the sound of an abrupt landing and disgruntlement.

Vesper scrambles to her feet. ‘Duet, look!’

She does, but nothing changes in her eyes. ‘It doesn’t …’ She twitches. ‘… Matter.’

Vesper’s hand finds Duet’s, squeezes. ‘Please come. I need you.’

Duet doesn’t squeeze back. Her head gives the smallest of shakes. But Vesper doesn’t let go and when Duet feels the pull, gentle, insistent, she is surprised to find herself moving.

Together, they descend.

From scattered places across Sonorous, black-visored figures stop, heads turning sharply. Leaving behind the soldiers at their backs, each one begins to run. Legs blur, making fan shapes beneath them as they race through the streets, faster than should be possible.

Witnesses can only stare and shiver.

Quickly, fourteen identically dressed figures converge on a house.

Inside are two bodies. One is of a man, aged by time outdoors, eyes staring towards infinity. They gather by the body. From two sword cuts and a hole made by angry light, essence escapes in little puffs of smoke.

Working as one, the figures capture the wisps, weaving them together. A coherent ball begins to appear, cupped in protective hands. At the same time, the group begin to excavate the essence in the body, clawing it out from the deep places, adding it to the ball. When they are finished, they close the man’s eyes.

Then the ball is taken to the second body, that of a woman, half of an abandoned Harmonised. They press it into the wound in her chest, then bind the cavity shut.

Any last spark of the woman flutters away in the flicker of eyelids.

The First opens its eyes and stands.

Restored, it lowers its head and the others do the same, until fifteen skulls tap together, sharing knowledge, making plans.

Less than a second later they break, ten of them sprint for the door, the other five move to an innocent looking corner of the room, reaching for the hidden doorway, glimpsed through dying eyes. But for the First, the panel refuses to open.

Gauntleted hands clench and the First leans over the rebellious plastic. Fists move like pistons, drumming, hammering, penetrating.

The passageway is narrow, forcing them on hands and knees. The kid bounds ahead, a perfect fit. From Duet’s visor a diamond flares into life, pushing back the gloom.

Vesper shoots her an envious look.

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

They crawl on. Vesper lets out a sigh, murmurs: ‘I wish I had a torch.’

‘You’ve got …’ She pauses, taps the side of her head irritably. ‘… Two.’

‘I do?’

‘The Navpack … and the … gun.’

‘They’re torches?’

‘They’re torches.’

Distant drumming reaches them. Then a single crack, a dulled burst of thunder.

Duet accelerates, knocks into Vesper. ‘Go faster.’

‘What’s going on?’

She punches the girl in the back of the thigh. ‘Go faster!’

Vesper yelps, complies. Behind them comes a rasping sound, of lightweight plates sliding over stone, rapid and numerous.

In their haste, knees are bashed, knuckles caught on the tunnel’s sides, a catalogue of minor traumas to be pored over later. Several times the tunnel divides but Vesper doesn’t hesitate, following purple lines held tight in memory.

The sound of the hunters pauses.

Vesper slows, takes a breath to speak but Duet knocks into her, hissing in frustration.

When they come again, the sounds of pursuit are diminished.

‘They don’t know the tunnels,’ Vesper pants. ‘We’re dividing them.’

‘It doesn’t … matter. Even one … of them’s … enough.’

All at once, light hits the end of the tunnel. A solid wall, decorated by damp, and, in front of it, another hole. Vesper pulls out the Navpack and shines it down. The beam dances on water and bends around the long cylinder of an escape vessel, bobbing leisurely on the surface. Where the light hits the side of the hole, bars glint. Each one is as wide as a giant’s hand, inviting them to climb. Vesper does so.

Before she reaches the bottom, the cylinder cracks open, welcoming. Vesper drops from the last bar, her impact absorbed by the cylinder’s thick inner lining. Girl and tube wobble in the water but neither tips over.

Vesper rocks the cylinder gently, testing buoyancy. Then she shines the Navpack around the chamber, mapping a shape not much bigger than the boat she sits on. She points the Navpack down, switches it from torch to navigator. Lines of light quickly describe a way out. Vesper frowns. ‘The exit is below us, we need to go down.’ She pats the side of the cylinder. ‘In this. It’s safe, I think.’

Above her, in the tunnel, Duet crawls backwards. Slowly trying to rotate in the cramped space. ‘No.’

‘What?’

‘You go.’

‘What about you?’

She completes her turn, then tries to work her sword free. ‘I’m staying.’

‘But why?’

‘To protect …’ Her elbow cracks against the side, painful. ‘… you. Give you time.’ Her sword is nearly free but within the confines of the tunnel she cannot fully straighten her arm. The tip remains caught in its scabbard.

‘Don’t leave me. I need you.’

‘It’s better … this way.’

Vesper lowers her head, hesitates, mouth moving quietly, planning the words before she says them. ‘It’s not up to you. The sword wants you to come.’ Duet edges back, feet dangling over the edge. With effort, she twists her head, craning until she can look down at the girl, suspicious. ‘Gamma’s sword spoke to me, remember? It needs me to carry it and it needs you to keep me safe.’

Duet just stares, face unreadable behind the visor.

‘Don’t be stupid! You can’t even swing a sword up there. They’ll kill you in seconds and you’ll have died for nothing. If you want to protect me then you need to come down, now!’

Her voice echoes in the tunnels, repeating and fading, fading and repeating, travelling, retreading their steps. When it has gone, silence follows.

The sounds of pursuit have stopped.

Girl, Harmonised and goat freeze, wondering who else listens in the darkness.

Then, sudden and decisive comes the sound of armoured limbs, battering the tunnel, supernaturally fast, gaining.

With a muttered curse, Duet lets her sword fall back into its sheath and lowers herself into the hole. The descent is controlled and quick, her landing soft. Fractionally, the cylinder dips, high sides untroubled by lapping water.

The kid appears at the top of the ladder, afraid to jump, afraid to stay.

‘Come on,’ encourages Vesper.

‘Leave it.’

‘No!’ She reaches up, smiles encouragingly. ‘Come on, you can do it. Jump. I’ll catch you.’

The kid bleats, extends a hoof into space, then retracts it hurriedly.

‘Don’t be scared.’

Duet speaks quickly, forcing words where she would naturally pause. ‘There’s no time, we have to go, forget the animal or we’ll all die.’

Vesper stands her ground. ‘You can do it. Jump.’ The sword begins to tremble against her back. ‘Come on,’ she calls, voice fake and positive. ‘Jump!’

The kid closes his eyes and with a final bleat, throws himself into space.