“Yes.”
Lord Brittleback exclaimed, “What a bloody mess!” He addressed Spearjab. “Are all your guardsmen accounted for, old fruit?”
“They are indeed, Prime Minister—harrumph!—and my troops are Working Class, not jolly old Aristocrats like the assailants!”
“Ah, yes, of course!” Brittleback responded. “I don’t understand it. The Yatsill are not violent. And the fact that Miss Stark is of the Aristocracy makes it even more incredible. Attacking one of our own? It’s bloody impossible!”
“Apparently not,” I put in.
Clarissa said, “Perhaps they were supporters of Yarvis Thayne and blame me for his murder.”
“They were acting on orders, I know that much,” I offered. “And if they supported Yarvis Thayne, then they must also support Yissil Froon.”
Father Mordant Reverie shook his head. “If you’re proposing that Yissil Froon might be behind this, I have to disagree in the strongest possible terms. He’s one of my most respected Magicians, and the eldest of us all. If anything, your suspicion suggests two hidden forces at work in the city, one supporting the dissonance and responsible for the murder of Thayne, the other against it and the source of the attack on Miss Stark.”
“Or a single force whose motives are rather more complex than we can currently guess,” Clarissa suggested.
“Is there any discontent among the Aristocrats?” I asked.
The prime minister gave an awkward shrug—a gesture that didn’t come easily to a Yatsill. “The Workers are restless, but not the Aristocracy.”
“There’s a problem with the Working Class?” Clarissa asked. “How so?”
“They are becoming increasingly uppity. The glassmakers have ceased work completely and I’ve received reports of widespread carelessness and disobedience. It’s bloody inconvenient and, to be perfectly frank, I’m not quite sure what to do about it. But that’s all beside the point.” He thought a moment, before addressing Spearjab again. “Colonel, I want you to instigate a search for the two surviving assassins.”
Spearjab saluted and said, “Right ho! Perhaps the dissonance—” he gestured at Clarissa “—could provide a description? Hey?”
My friend glanced at me and shook her head. The Yatsill all looked similar to us.
“Their masks were the same,” Clarissa said. “Plain and unadorned.”
“One of them lost his right hand,” I added, “and the other the lower part of one leg.”
“Ah!” Brittleback said. “Well done! That’ll teach ’em! Father Mordant, perhaps these individuals will visit a Magician for treatment.”
“I shall make enquiries, Prime Minister.”
Brittleback wriggled his fingers and flicked a hand toward the corpse. “Colonel, would you and your men dispose of this bloody thing, please? And I’d like a couple of your troops on permanent sentry duty outside Miss Stark’s house.”
Spearjab replied, “Humph! Yes! What! I say, Prime Minister, it occurs to me that Guardsman Fleischer has contributed enough to the training of the City Guard. In addition to placing two sentries in the square, I shall assign him permanently to Miss Stark. What! What!”
“Bloody good show!” Brittleback exclaimed.
Spearjab looked at me. “Never leave her side, is that understood, old thing?”
“Perfectly!” I replied, feeling as if a great weight had been lifted from me.
“Well then,” Brittleback announced, “we each have our part to play, but you, Colonel, will coordinate the investigation. I’d particularly like to know whether this has any connection with the murder of Yarvis Thayne.”
“Abso
lutely! Absolutely! I’ll place guards with Yissil Froon, too. He might be in danger.
Danger
, I say!”
“Good thinking, Colonel! Do it at once, please!”
So saying, the prime minister mounted his vehicle, was followed aboard by his tall, silent aide, and they departed. Spearjab and his two subordinates loaded the dead Yatsill onto their autocarriage and went rattling away.
Father Reverie looked up at the sky. Its pale yellow had deepened, taking on an orange hue. The shadows were lengthening. Drops of rain were beginning to fall. “Rest for as long as you need, Miss Stark,” he murmured without looking down, “then attend to your various projects. Whatever of them can be completed in short order, I recommend you get them done.” He lowered his head and turned his crow mask to me. “And you, Guardsman Fleischer, keep your sword sharp. The Eyes will soon be closing.”
He crossed to his vehicle, clambered into it, and without a backward glance, drove off.
“Oddly enough,” I said, “I feel much happier.”
Clarissa pushed me toward the house. “Because your training is finished?”
We stepped in and walked across the vestibule.
“Because we won’t be separated any more.”
As we entered the kitchen, I was overcome by an impulse. Grabbing my friend’s elbow, I turned her to face me then pulled her into a tight embrace. “I nearly lost you!” I whispered, pressing my face into the crook of her neck. “Clarissa, I nearly lost you!”
She put her arms around me. “But thanks to your own bravery, you didn’t.”
I held her, perhaps longer than our close friendship warranted, but I couldn’t let her go and didn’t care about decorum. The thought of being without her was unbearable—and it struck me that it wasn’t being alone on Ptallaya I feared, but the possibility I might be without Clarissa Stark
anywhere
.
I released her and stepped back, my hands still on her upper arms. She was beautiful.
“I’ve never asked you,” I said, looking at the dark goggles. “What colour are your eyes?”
“Brown.” To my surprise, she reddened slightly and quickly changed the subject. “You’re shaking like a leaf, Aiden—sit down. Are you still hungry? I’ll prepare us something to eat.”
I laughed. “Do you remember when you first arrived at Theaston Vale? It feels like such a long time ago, but you said you couldn’t enjoy my hospitality with the odour of the road upon you. In the same vein, I cannot sit here after a bloodthirsty battle while you cook for me, so, if you don’t mind, I’ll go and wash while you work your magic at the stove.”
A little later, while splashing water over my face, I paused and, with my eyes closed, revisited again that horrible moment when the Yatsill had thrown itself upon my sword. I re-experienced the grating vibration running up my arm as the blade slid through its shell, the hot blood spurting across my fingers, the weight of the body impacting against me, and the final exhalation rattling in my ear.
What had I felt? Did an internal Jack the Ripper relish the kill? Had a monster risen from my shadows?
No, there was no monster.
I’d been aware only of overwhelming shock and repulsion, but, again, there was also the strange notion that an exterior force had drawn the reaction out of me. Now I felt entirely differently. Grimly satisfied. I was
glad
the beast had died. Glad because he’d tried to execute Clarissa and I’d been responsible for his failure. Furthermore, having just killed, I knew for certain that it was for the first time. Whatever the darkness in me was, it certainly
wasn’t
the Ripper.
Clean, and somewhat calmer, I rejoined my friend.
“How’s your hand?” she asked.
“It doesn’t hurt at all.”
We ate a large meal, during which I asked, “Why don’t you manufacture a pistol? I’d feel happier if you were armed.”
“The Yatsill have forbidden it. They see no use for such weapons. Besides which, I’d hate to introduce firearms to this world. Our own has suffered enough because of them.”
“Will you at least carry a sword?”
“I’d be too clumsy with it. A dagger. I’ll carry a dagger.”
After our meal, we moved to the lounge where we sat and chatted. Outside, the rain had quickly developed into a heavy downpour. Clarissa stood and wandered over to one of the windows. Looking out, she observed, “There are never any clouds, yet it rains.”
“And it never rains but it pours—with ever greater frequency.”
“It’s late afternoon, Aiden. We have a very, very long night ahead of us. What a fool I’ve been!”
“Fool? Why?”
“Because it’s only just occurred to me to manufacture street lamps. Had I thought of it earlier, the whole city could’ve been illuminated by dusk. As it is, by the time I have them designed and the machinery to make them constructed, it’ll be too late.”
“The Yatsill must have managed well enough before our arrival,” I noted.
“Hmm. True. With burning brands in the Koluwaian fashion, I’d wager.”
She turned and stretched. Much time had passed since her immersion and subsequent transformation but it was obvious that she still delighted in her healthy limbs and straight back.
“I think I’ll turn in,” she said.
I gave a sound of agreement. I was tired. We retired to our respective rooms.
° °
Time on Ptallaya is more subjective than on Earth and disconcerting in its effects. One might work and sleep, work and sleep, work and sleep again, look at the suns, and find they’ve apparently not moved at all—or embark on what feels like a short task only to discover, upon its completion, that the two orbs have visibly shifted and shadows have lengthened.
During the final stretch of the long Ptallayan day—I’d guess a month in Earthly terms but could be utterly wrong—the weather continued to worsen. A hot breeze started to blow from the land across the bay as if the Eyes of the Saviour, as they neared the horizon, were dragging all the air they’d heated after them. The quality of light around us gradually deepened to a rusty orange. The rains came more frequently, fell harder, and lasted longer.
New Yatsillat suffered. An alteration in the climate hadn’t been taken into account when the city was built. Various of its materials rapidly deteriorated as they were first battered by the ferocious downpours, then swiftly dried by the torrid winds, then hit by rain again. Buildings leaked. Roofs collapsed. Walls cracked. The new sewerage pipes overflowed and burst. A section of the eighth terrace—as it happens, the district where Crooked Blue Tower Barracks had been located—collapsed and slid onto the ninth level, burying part of the fishing village.
To make matters worse, the Working Class approached the required repairs with a complete lack of diligence, performing their work in a very slapdash manner, taking far too long about it, or, increasingly, failing to do anything at all.
Amid this erosion, the flu-like sickness spread through the city like wildfire. Those of the Workers who came down with it reverted to a near animal state. They divested themselves of their garments, gathered at the seafront, and refused to leave. Kata told us, “They think they are dying and await the call of Phenadoor.”
The Aristocracy fared a little better. They became weak and suffered spells of dizziness and amnesia, but were at least able to function.
Meanwhile, Colonel Spearjab made no progress with his investigation. The two surviving assailants hadn’t been treated by any of the Magicians, or, it appeared, seen by anyone else.
Whatever had motivated the attempt on Clarissa’s life remained a mystery.
“There’ve been no further moves made against you,” I noted, “and none against Yissil Froon or anyone else. I wonder what our mysterious enemy is up to?”
We were walking home. Clarissa had taken a break from her ongoing research to join me for lunch at our local restaurant—a meal marred by bad service and which ended prematurely due to the establishment’s front window suddenly falling in, scattering shards of glass across the entire dining area.
Rather than responding to my musing, my friend, who’d been somewhat preoccupied throughout the meal, suddenly looked around as if only just realising where she was.
“The sky is red!” she murmured. “It’s late! I didn’t realise.”
“The suns are setting,” I said. “You’ve been holed away in that laboratory of yours for ages!”
A strong gust of wind whistled through the eaves of the buildings to either side of us. We’d opted to walk in the middle of the street in order to avoid falling roof tiles. There was little traffic—the city was becoming ever quieter and less active.
“Ages? Really? It doesn’t feel like it.”
“You’ve been busy, that’s why. I, on the other hand, have had very little to do and the time has dragged awfully.”
She didn’t answer.
I looked at her. “Clarissa?”
“Hmm?”
“Did you hear me? What’s wrong? You hardly said a word during lunch.”
She sighed and frowned. “I’m sorry, Aiden. I’m finding it almost impossible to think straight. I appear to have affixed on a memory and it’s replaying over and over, like an annoying tune that lodges itself in one’s head.”
“What memory?”
“Of the blueprints that Sir Philip Hufferton and I drew up when I was a youngster. I find myself dwelling on their every detail, their every line, and I can’t stop myself. I have no idea why.”
“Blueprints for what?”
“Extravagant war machines. Impractical, childish things. Why in Heaven’s name are they playing on my mind so?”