Blightcross: A Novel (6 page)

“When things deteriorate to such a poor state as they have, perhaps the worldspirits, these intrinsic ideas, have no choice but to incarnate as the angels and direct us more deliberately. Yes.” He stormed towards the door. “Thank you, Vasi. You have given me a lot to think about. Now, let's get back to work on that painting. Blightcross needs its power.”

She lowered her head. “Yes, Leader.”

Watching Sevari disappear into the hall comforted her some, but when she returned to her bench, something gnawed inside. It was as though the archon's gaze cut into her, all the way from beyond the gap. Was it judging her?

It had been years. Five, at least, since she had left what was now called Mizkov for Blightcross. Why now?

Stories. Nothing more. What mattered was here, now. And that just happened to be unravelling arcane secrets for a madman.

CHAPTER THREE

Capra tended to avoid jobs in which the task involved dumping bodies, so this one was a first for her. But it wasn't as if evictions usually ended this way.

Or perhaps here in Blightcross, they did. Whatever the case, anxiety about the encounter clung to her like the haze that permeated the air in this city. The money meant nothing; if she had been patient, they could have found something easier and more profitable.

She still couldn't make sense of this city. On one street, she suspended her guilty conscience as they passed a remarkable, asymmetrical building of grey concrete. Around it, traditional half-timbre designs dominated the block's architectural canvas, their squat windows betraying a deep jealousy of the new style. This was nothing new to her. What bothered her was the government notice pasted to the front of the beautiful structure: Condemned and Appropriated By The Decency Commission.

It seemed wherever she found comforting progressive elements from the Little Nations here, they were stifled by the shit growing around them.

“Look, a leather shop.”

Dannac spread his hands. “So?”

“So, I left everything I own on that damned flying boat. I can't work as a thief or saboteur in loose trousers and a frilly blouse.”

“Ah, yes. Your... work outfit.”

How could the old bastard argue with practicality? She paused to remember her measurements, then darted into the shop.

The young man at the counter could only blink at her request. “It's not like any work clothes I ever saw. Are you sure this isn't for some unwholesome activity?”

She sighed. “I do a lot of climbing, you see. Climbing, falling, skidding, and everything else you could think of. This is what works. Now, will you make this or are you going to make me find someone else?”

The young man cleared his throat. Probably the kid was imagining what she'd look like in such an outfit. “Yeah, give me a few days.”

“Sooner.”

“A few days, lady. Look around you, everyone's wearing workwear from this shop. I got plenty of pieces to finish.”

She stomped and rolled her eyes. “Fine. I'll come back in a few days, then.”

Back into the street, she found Dannac with his arms crossed, gazing at the passing carriages. He turned to her. “What was his price?”

“A little higher than usual.”

“Let me go in and renegotiate.”

She placed a hand on his chest. “Relax. It wasn't that bad.”

“Maybe not to a decadent Valoii, but we aren't really in a position to—”

She shoved him along. “Yes, we are. Now, what we need more than bargains is a damned job.”

Two hours later, Capra conceded that they could only afford the most basic housing for the night. The prices at even mediocre inns were ridiculous. How could there be a housing problem when there was so much unused, barren space in this godforsaken place?

They settled on a four-storey brick inn, the name of which Capra couldn't read. At this price range, the name probably didn't matter anyway. On stepping into the lobby, she reeled with second thoughts and regret—she convulsed in a fit of sneezing, a strange tingle biting in her sinuses. Even more encouraging was the iron cage built around the front desk.

“I'll let you deal with this,” she said, and further surveyed the lobby.

Dannac spoke briefly with the attendant, and before long, though not nearly long enough for her liking, they headed up crumbling stairs towards their room. A tackiness clung to her boots and made sticky sounds along the floor, and many rooms lacked doors. Some rooms held ten or more occupants, and there was a constant thumping and yelling that seemed built into the architecture. A few tenants appeared to be regular working people who could find no better place to live, but leathery faces marked with knife scars and talk of ransom and contraband fluttered through the halls, and the former must have been the exception in this building.

It wasn't all gloom and depression, though. They had escaped Alim, and the human stains existing in and around this building would insulate them if he aimed to continue searching for her. She might prefer a luxury resort, like the Baron had booked for them, but this was safer.

A table was the room's only piece of furniture. On the floor they sat cross-legged and drank short bottles of small beer. Capra had visited the water pump on the ground floor, and decided to pass on it. Of course, Dannac would drink anything, but she was determined not to let him put grey sludge into his body.

After a while, he said, “You need to stop stressing yourself over it. It is done. The man was near death anyway.”

She looked up from the community newspaper, which she could barely read on account of her lax knowledge of the Tamish written language. “How do you know? He needed help, not to be killed.”

“He attacked us.”

“Maybe he didn't know what he was doing.”

There was something wrong about Dannac trying to convince Capra, a Valoii, that killing an Ehzeri was necessary. No doubt everyone back home, on all sides, would at least have a laugh over it.

Wind, so hot... sun beaming on a dozen cavalry sabres...

“From what I have seen, this was not isolated.” Dannac pointed to the paper. “There are many Ehzeri here. Many from empowered families.”

“But why?”

“Someone told them that exchanging their birthright for temporary financial gain was better than fighting your people.”

“Isn't it, though?”

He shook his head. “Individual use of
vihs
will deplete the Ehzeri familial power forever. That is what happened to my family.” He was silent for a moment. “Since not all Ehzeri in each family are working here in concert with each other, it will only deplete what few family lines are left with the ability.”

“They never told us that. All they did was allude to inbreeding or some other strange deviancy as the reason for waning Ehzeri power. Then there were the mystical explanations, and I think those were the most accepted theories.”

He snorted. “God sees the
vihs-draaf
as wicked and unnecessary, just because of these machines?”

Capra shrugged. “It didn't make any sense to me either, but you don't argue with the academy instructors.”

Her knees were getting stiff, so she stood and went to the rickety iron balcony. Across the way stood another eight-storey building of the same rectilinear construction of red brick their own building displayed. This part of town could not have been very old, since Naartland itself had been established for barely a century, yet these buildings already gave her an impression of being worn and tired, like an adolescent who had never eaten well. She longed for the grand cathedrals and palaces of the Little Nations. She loved them all—that year she had spent hiding, with barely enough to eat once a day, still made her smile when she reminisced about it.

There were arches, and ruins of aqueducts, and a vibrant new type of architecture to replace what had been destroyed during the war. The men in most of the towns she visited were affectionate, to say the least. The tea had more flavour, and she could just lie on the beach for much of the day and forget about the army, Ehzeri guerrillas, and the things she had willingly done that made her sick to remember.

She rested her hand on the rail. She felt something greasy and pulled away. Her hand was covered in a black smear of grit.

In the distance, there it was—the monolith. A clock tower, surrounded by bulbous buildings that reminded her of fungal growths on trees. Smokestacks rose from many of these bulbs, and in the waning light jets of flame spewing from them became visible.

Was it a foundry? Just what was it that was attracting people from all over the main continent?

It couldn't be a foundry. Yahrein possessed the best foundries in the world, and a project this massive would have caused upset back on the continent. All she had heard during her forced holiday was that Naartland was a nation of upstarts who took great credit and pride for the resources that had been lying under their feet for billions of years.

She had just assumed that they were talking about ore, but perhaps this was some new product...

When the chemical odour returned on a hot breeze, she wrinkled her nose and went back inside.

The two of them passed the rest of the night in silence. She assumed Dannac was performing a kind of Ehzeri meditation, and she busied herself with the newspaper. Since they could be stuck in Blightcross for months, even a year or more, she thought she had better improve her language skills.

Although both Capra and Dannac were disciplined enough to go days without food and maintain their concentration, neither were in the mood for a fasting contest, and the next morning they ventured into the streets. There was an eatery just down the road from their building, but Capra insisted they find something else after stepping into the place's sawdust floor.

“As you wish, your majesty,” Dannac had told her when she refused to eat at the place.

By now, Capra noticed that the city seemed to cycle through three or four strange odours, and that her throat felt as though she had swallowed a washboard. Beyond the low buildings, there was another industrial-looking monolith, but these she knew were foundries and smelters. There were parcels of unused land surrounding them, and there was a peculiar red tinge to the sand.

“I have a method, you know,” she said, as they cleared the barren area and came upon a collection of tents and shacks and tables, all barely visible amid the crowd buzzing around them. Most of them were women in dun-coloured cloth that covered their faces. The few uncovered faces showed nasty red sores.

There was some produce for sale, but most of the things for sale were things unfamiliar to Capra. She began to feel backward and stupid. She may have received a sophisticated, state-sponsored education, but did that matter out here? Was Blightcross also a centre for innovation?

Or was it all just distraction?

She saw trinkets stamped with the rose emblem that must have been the crest of Blightcross. Slogans—“strong and free”—on random items, like chamber pots and grain sifters. Symbols of the Tamarck deity called The Teacher, which was rapidly displacing its companions in the old pantheon and was responsible for much of the current disdain for
vihs
.

“The Teacher helps those who help themselves,” Dannac said, and loud enough for anyone to hear. “Choice is the ultimate divinity.”

Capra gave him a perplexed look. “You don't agree?”

“Choice for its own sake is vain. This is why my cousins and brothers kill your people.”

“We are not a theocracy. We do what we do because of the war, not because of any spiritual high-ground.”

“Well, I really don't care about it either way. It is kind of strange how these people seem to be constantly reminding themselves of what they already think, though.”

They moved faster through the market. Now she noticed the market's neat rows of palms. For a single breath, the heat and palm trees whisked her back to the southern state of Heuvot. She had washed dishes there for three weeks, and again it was one of the best experiences she'd ever had, so for the moment she shut away the memory.

They settled for a bistro tucked into a side street that was not clogged with carriages. Buildings here were made of granite, and there were worn hints of intricacies on many of them. Instead of hammers, machines, and hurrying workers, the air shimmered with music.

Music and aromatics, like Parnas' clove cheroots and brewing shalep. Some of the walls in the alley were marked with painted slogans and strange symbols, yet no derelicts clogged the way.

It took a few seconds for Capra's eyes to adjust to the dimness. Wood planks creaked with each step. Still, it reminded her of better times. A string quartet played at the back of the place, and the well-dressed patrons seemed to take this strange music as commonplace.

“I feel uneasy here,” Dannac said.

“You need to learn how to relax. This is the best place we've been since we left the continent. Now sit.”

They took a table tucked into a corner. Dannac still didn't look half as impressed as Capra felt. The menu alone... overpriced, yes, but real cuisine, like the kind she wanted to create. It even took three quarters of an hour to get their food—a pace she could get used to.

At last, after having no complaints about the “extravagant” food, Dannac said, “There are men sitting here who have done nothing but read books for the last hour.”

“Yes. I almost want to talk to the chef, because I have never made this particular—”

A woman placed a thin palm on the table and leaned in. “I will be blunt. Are you two free for the day? I would like to interest you in some work.”

At this, Dannac appeared less uncomfortable. “A day?”

“Well, it will take the better part of this day to go over the assignment. It is quite complex, you see.”

Capra eyed the woman warily. “What makes you think we are the sort who needs work?”

The woman gestured at Capra's tattered clothes. “Unless this is the latest style off the boat from Arjoan, you either need emergency treatment from one of these local dandies, or you've found yourself in circumstances that make available your... services.”