Blightcross: A Novel (26 page)

“What do you know of the war? Hm? You weren't even an impure urge in your father's groin yet.”

Rovan went still and for an instant, his image changed to that of a tall man in black coat and hat.

Sevari shut his eyes, shook his head. When he opened them, Rovan was back to his old self.

It was just that now, two men in black, tailored outfits flanked him.

“Who are these men? Hm? What have you brought into my home?”

The three strange people now began to circle him. Could it be the worldspirits? Were they testing him? No, something far worse.

“Shadows. You are the shadows, aren't you? From the painting?” His gut began to lurch. “Did that fool release them?”

How could he be so naive? He might as well have given Helverliss a regiment to command against him.

One of the men in black said, “We thought you were more like us, but really, Rovan is more suited.”

He could only respond with a confused mumble.

Against what he would expect, the shadow men said nothing and paced while Rovan spoke. “They need a leader. A figurehead to remind them of why they are here, to anchor them. They chose me.”

The boy was no longer Rovan. It was a trick—the shadows were the agents of lies and they had taken the boy's body. “Rovan was like one of my own, you ghouls. I will ensure that you... things will suffer for taking him.”

“Come, back to our office. I'm willing to share it with you, Sevari.” For once, Rovan looked sincere.

“Really?”

“Yes. We would cease to exist without this world of men. Therefore, it will remain intact in some respects. Besides, the people here seem to trust you. It will be a joint operation. Blightcross will become the envy of the world once the shadows overrun this already admirable society.”

“What is your aim?”

“Whatever we want. That is the only rule. There will be competition among us, and brothers will be pitted against each other.”

“I do not understand...”

“You will.”

Alim looked up from his spyglass. Below, the streets bustled as usual, and he only hoped that nobody would be injured once they fired upon their targets from the rooftops. “What is it, Corporal?”

The soldier knelt and removed his cap. “Strange things, Sir. Things I ain't never seen, and we've seen plenty here.”

The black streaks? It could have been anything. Some strange industrial byproduct, or a scientific phenomenon.

“It is nothing to worry about, Corporal. We have more immediate concerns.”

There was no answer, unless a heavy breathing and glazed eyes was the soldier's reply.

“Is that clear, Corporal—”

The soldier's knees buckled, blood gushed from his mouth. Behind him stood another soldier, whose mouth was half-curled into a bizarre expression somewhere between a smile and a grimace.

Alim drew his short sword just in time to parry the soldier's unwieldy blow. “What the hell is wrong with you, soldier?”

“I want.”

“Want what?”

The soldier took another swipe, which Alim dodged. His heel jammed against the small ledge, and he flailed to keep his balance. A mere step from dropping to his death and a murdered comrade at his feet—he had to shove away these thoughts and focus.

“What have you done, man?”

There was an odd glaze over the soldier's eyes. And now, inexplicably, since they had secured the rooftop, a thin man in black business attire watched from behind the soldier.

“Who are you? Someone arrest this man.” Alim raised his sword, and despite that the man immediately in front of him was a trained killer, the one in black was what chilled him.

“I am in command now,” the soldier said. “You are too weak. The strong are better suited to lead, don't you think?”

One false move and he would tumble over the edge to his death. “I'm warning you one last time, soldier. Stand down.”

The soldier crept forward, and Alim slashed. The blade bit into the soldier's abdomen, and he did not so much as wince before he fell to the ground. Alim averted his gaze from the body and faced the stranger in black.

“You there—what have you done to him?” He peered behind the man. The rest of his men were propped against the little wall, heads slack and eyes closed. There were two other squads stationed atop other buildings on this block, but they were already in position and watching the ground.

The man turned his blue eyes to the freshly slain soldiers. “You always knew better than your commanders, Alim.”

“I have no time for this. What have you done to my men?”

“The officers who command you are part of their own little club, aren't they? If only you could just expose them for the leeches they are.” The man shook his head slowly. “Sitting back and taking monetary benefits from the very men who own many of these weapons factories. Buying more and more weapons to hand over to men like you. Brave men. You deserve so much better.”

Alim's fingers relaxed slightly, the sword slipping in his grip. The man's voice seemed to pacify his racing heart and soften his hard readiness—who was he, and how could he know Alim's deepest held thoughts? Was he a foreign agent who had read a dossier filled with minute details and analysis by one of these new mind-bending practitioners?

“Look at all of the waste here. These factories, this corrupt regime. The world needs heroes, Alim. You are that hero.”

What an odd thing to say. Except in Tamarck, of course, where heroic rhetoric flowed from the King and the elected officials like the industrialized wine they jettisoned on all sides of their borders to war-torn nations begging for affordable products.

“See? You are humble. We can just let that part be unspoken. Follow my direction, and we will accomplish great things.” The man touched Alim's shoulder, and Alim wondered why this had not triggered him to hack off the man's arm at the elbow. “I want you to go to those men lying back there and kill them.”

“No. I won't.” As if it were a reasonable request he just couldn't perform, as if they were talking about cutting a deal for a bushel of grain. Why was he suddenly so blasé about this bizarre conversation? The fact of his questioning this should have kicked him out of the trance, but...

“Greatness is hampered by leeches such as them. Go ahead—they won't feel a thing. They are already unconscious.”

He was right. They would not feel the blade across their throats, and with them gone he could do so much more—

What was he thinking?

He needed them.

They were real people, not pawns, not objects like this man was portraying. This person was an agent of self-satisfaction, a ghoul of narcissism.

Alim shoved the man away and readied his sword. “I do not know who you are, but flattery is rather amateurish.”

“Fine. Do it for Jasaf. You want to gut her—the woman who could have saved her had she not fled like the coward she is. Cowards are the real criminals. Those who will not stand up to the call of duty, those who are afraid. I will help you make her pay. You cannot just bring her back to face a trial and sterile execution.”

“You seriously think I have so little self-control that I can't resist your appealing to visceral fantasies? Do you not realize that...” His mind went alight with bright images of Capra hoisted onto a cross and left to rot in the sun.

Punishment.

“You were saying, brave soldier?”

Alim turned away from the man. “I was saying that you have no power over me.” He then twirled, sword at throat-level to end this man's stupid chatter.

His blade passed through the stranger, and Alim stumbled wildly. “What are you?”

Three more, identical to the first, appeared from high above—black streaks, like tar poured from high above, filling an invisible casting of their human forms.

This was a kind of magic on which Alim had never been briefed, and with his special status, he possessed access to all the bulletins.

“This one lacks the ability to have any fun,” one of them said.

Another said, “Enjoy yourself, Alim.”

Alim began to step back, and mentally mapped out his escape to the stairwell. “I can do that just fine on my own, thank you.”

“Admiration, that's why you do it. You want to be able to do as you please once you're an old, decrepit fool just because you served, isn't that right? Well, take that respect now. You deserve it, Alim.”

The more he spoke with these ghosts, the more they made sense. He had to get out before they started to make too much sense.

He clenched his jaw, waved the sword, and bolted for the stairwell.

He was prepared to engage them, but sailed past, too afraid to look back. The strangers' laughter seeped into his skull even as he blew down the stairs and ran through the leather shop on the ground floor.

Outside, he craned his neck every which way, eyes darting around but finding no sign of the ghosts. Had he imagined it? What if he had come under some spell and actually murdered his own men?

This city boiled with a thousand poisons, like an alchemist's lab. Perhaps a tainted meal, or maybe there were chemicals here that entered the body by touch, and he had descended into a madness. But there wasn't time to explain it. This was the street through which Capra was heading, and his men were poised at the rooftops surrounding the block with orders to take down her Ehzeri companions with as many cannon shots as necessary.

Twenty men, all firing hand-cannons from every angle—it would be a hailstorm given the ambiguous accuracy of these new weapons.

Rather than run to one of the other buildings, Alim chose to hide and observe the capture. A man on the ground was a good idea anyway.

Everything would be fine, as long as the hand-cannons did their job.

Alim took comfort in these grounding thoughts. Until, that is, he saw the three identical men in black wending through the afternoon crowds, all eyes trained on him.

“What do you want from me?”

They did not answer.

It was as though the moment in the pub had bounced Capra into some strange shadow of the world she had known. First the strange man in the alley, then a sky writhing with shadows. Walking through the city only deepened the disconnectedness. Queues spilled out of the underground terminals and into the street, and the place seemed more chaotic than usual. She peered over a railing at an open section of track. There were people in the middle of the tracks raving at an invisible audience. Twice she observed horseless carriages tipping and crashing and erupting into a pile of burning metal and black smoke. There were brawls on every corner, and every so often she noticed flashes of the same smartly dressed man, only to lose sight of him in the next instant.

“I hardly see the point of buying clothes at a time like this,” Dannac said.

Capra stopped in front of the leather shop. “If I went into a giant machine wearing these, I'd either be pulled into the mechanisms and pulverized, or nude. I'd prefer to avoid both.”

“And what am I supposed to do?”

“And me too?” This was the first time Vasi had spoken since they left the pub.

“You'll have to strip to your underclothes, at least,” she said to Dannac. “And you're not coming, Vasi. Remember?”

Vasi looked contrite, sullen. “Right. I forgot. Sorry.”

They came to the shop, and Capra quickly darted in. She found the man at the counter in a daze, glaring out the window.

When she was finally able to catch them man's attention with a wave, he said, “Yes? Oh, you're the lady... hm.” He reached under the counter and brought out a folded bundle tied with string. “Now, I don't know what someone like you is going to do with this, but it seems like something unsavoury.”

“Sir, it's strictly a vocational garment. Please, I have to hurry.”

“Vocation? Bah. I been making work attire for fifteen years here, and I never seen something like this.”

“Well, now you have.” She dumped the coins on the counter and snatched the bundle from him.

“Strange things happening today.” The man shook his head and examined each coin.

“So these crashing carriages and random fights in the streets are not usual for this city?”

The clerk lowered his glasses and gave her a sceptical look. “I just had a bunch of men scrambling to the roof. Then one scrambling down. They're from the Corps, I imagine. I think they've finally gone crazy too. Everyone has.”

She gulped. “Corps?”

“Nice young man, immigrant like yourself. Intense fellow, though.”

“Shit.” She stuffed the bundle into her rucksack and bolted out of the shop, but it was too late.

The block roared with stuttering thunder, followed by the patter of hailstones pounding the dirt road and brickwork. Cannon fire? She flattened against the wall and searched the scattering crowd for her companions.

So much for the safety of big city anonymity. Was Alim so single-minded that he would let innocent bystanders take the brunt of their fire, just in the hope that he might capture her?

She readied her switchblade, though the attackers were hidden, and, she assumed, occupying high ground. Her knuckles blanched under her anxious grip on the blade.

She sensed something wrong, and it wasn't just the booming guns aimed at her comrades. It was worth the risk to step into the fire to find Dannac and Vasi, and luckily Alim's men appeared to need more practice with their weapons. Years ago she had taken part in a similar ambush in an attempt to assassinate an Ehzeri resistance leader, and their crossbow assault had destroyed the enemy in five seconds. This was highly unprofessional, and Alim could have had them all killed in an instant if he'd followed procedure and had the right people.

The packed crowd shattered into splinters, the people scrambling in every direction. Soon the block was empty. A ghost town, only one trembling with cannon fire. A naked dread, as if she had been stripped of all defences, spurred her into action. She dashed behind a dustbin, only to find the hiding place already occupied, and she collided with a crouching man. The two rolled into the street, where cannon shot continued to pepper the ground.