Pandaemonium
Also by Ben Macallan
Desdaemona
Writing as Chaz Brenchley
The Samaritan
The Refuge
The Garden
Mall Time
Paradise
Blood Waters
Dispossession
Shelter
T
HE
B
EN
M
ACALLAN NOVELS
Dead of Light
Light Errant
T
HE
B
OOKS OF
O
UTREMER
Tower of the King’s Daughter
Feast of the King’s Shadow
Hand of the King’s Evil
S
ELLING
W
ATER BY THE
R
IVER
River of the World
Bridge of Dreams
P
HANTOMS AT THE
P
HIL
(
E
DITOR
)
The First Proceedings
The Second Proceedings
The Third Proceedings
Writing as Daniel Fox
Moshui: The Books of Stone and Water
Dragon in Chains
Jade Man's Skin
Hidden Cities
Writing as Carol Trent
Time Again
PANDAEMONIUM
Ben Macallan
First published 2012 by Solaris
an imprint of Rebellion Publishing Ltd,
Riverside House, Osney Mead,
Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK
ISBN (epub): 978-1-84997-452-3
ISBN (mobi): 978-1-84997-453-0
Copyright © 2012 Chaz Brenchley.
Cover Art by Vincent Chong.
The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owners.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
For Karen.
This second half of a still unfinished story.
CHAPTER ONE
T
HEY WERE GOING
to hang my boyfriend up by his heels and bleed all the life out of him, and they thought I’d want to
watch
.
No. Almost all of that is true, but none of it is right.
No. Almost all of that is right, but none of it is true. He was not my boyfriend, and it wasn’t his life they were taking, not really. Just his blood. And they just assumed that I’d stay, because – well, it was a privilege they granted me. I should be grateful, apparently.
They were his parents, and they thought I should be grateful.
N
O.
A
CTUALLY, THEY WERE
feeling grateful to me, in so far as they could. In that cool, distancing way that people do when they’re that much older and wealthier and socially significant, superior in every way including manners. The way a lord might be grateful to his groom,
here’s a sovereign for your trouble
, or a billionaire to her secretary,
take the day off, dear, you deserve it
: graciously, generously, affordably.
Stay and watch.
N
O.
T
HEY OWED ME
, and they knew it. I had a strange, wayward love for their strange, wayward son, and they knew that too. To them, that didn’t matter. They would have made the same offer if I’d been a traitor bought and paid for, or a servant, or a bystander.
We sought him so long, and could not find him; you brought us to him. Thank you. Stay and watch.
And Jordan was terrified, trapped at last, and alone except for me – and even so.
“No,” I said, trying to make it sound flat and final, determined, strong. Trying not to sound terrified myself, saying no to this man.
Even
man
is wrong there – this figure, this Power, this god I should say, perhaps – but he looked human enough, at the moment, in this world. And very male, he did look very male. And middle-aged but well-kept, no hint of grey at the temples. Well, you wouldn’t expect that, would you?
Mature
might be a better way to say it. Not quite untouched by time. Experienced, familiar with loss; a little sad, a little solemn.
Not mortal. Never that. Even in this skin, and even if you were mortal yourself and had no inkling that there was any other kind of person out there: even then, you couldn’t possibly convince yourself that this was somebody acquainted with the possibility of old age, decay and death.
His son was dead, his younger son, recently and appallingly, and even so.
His older son was upstairs. With his mother, this man’s wife. Because I’d called them, given them directions, kept Jordan here till they came.
I was glad to be dealing with the father, although he scared me so. The mother would be harder. Harder to say no to.
“No,” I said, “I won’t stay. I-I can’t. I’m sorry...”
“He’d want to see you here.”
“No. I don’t think he ever wants to see me again, after what I just –”
“Afterwards. He’ll want to see you, afterwards. It’ll be different, then.”
That would be then. This was now. Right now he was upstairs with his mother. He must be terrified; he must be hating me. I was sure of that, at least.
T
HIS WAS MY
cottage, my hideaway, place of greatest safety. No good to me now.
I’d said everything I could to the guy, everything that mattered.
No
, I’d said. Time and again I’d said it.
That was enough to be getting on with, enough for him to think about. Besides, he was going to be busy any minute now.
So I got on. I turned on my heel and walked away from him.
I don’t suppose that happens very often. Who says no to Pluto, to Dis, Lord of the Underworld? Who walks away from Death himself?
He isn’t Death, of course, in the greater scheme of things, but he might as well be. It’s a distinction but not a difference.
Except for the breeding, the fertility that was another of his aspects. The sons.
Son, now. It used to be a joke, almost, that Death had two boys to inherit when the time came. An heir and a spare. It wasn’t ever funny; now it wasn’t even true.
He was master of Hell, one of the senior Powers, one of the immortal greats; and I turned my back and refused what he was asking. What he was offering.
Walked out of my cottage, out of my home, away from my last best hope. Because I couldn’t bear to stay, to see the consequences of what I’d done.
I’m not proud of it. There’s a lot I’ve done that I’m none too proud of, but that moment went at the top of the list, right then.
Right by the door there, where there should have been roses growing? Was an old sack, dumped and hanging open. Inside were ropes and shackles, hooks and blades.
The sack was probably traditional. They weren’t sack people, by and large. The rest, the contents – well.
I glanced up at my precious balcony, and shuddered.
And kept walking. Out onto the towpath, where my boat should have been moored and wasn’t.
Past the end of the lane, where my bike should have been parked up and wasn’t.
And on upriver, because that was the way I was facing and it felt technically harder, moving against the stream, and I deserved it. I’d done a great and a terrible thing, and nothing should come easy after that.
Nothing about this was easy already. I was crying, I realised, after a bit. People were staring. Not that many people, this time on a workday morning, but still. People enough to take note of a mad girl plunging down the path, hands in pockets, scowling, shoulders hunched, not stopping. Not for anyone. Weeping as she went.