Those Below: The Empty Throne Book 2 (25 page)

‘There are no gods, you speck of dust and grime, you imbecilic and arbitrary arrangement of flesh. There is nothing waiting to judge or to redeem you, no hell for the sinner nor paradise for the faithful. There will be the pain I bring you, and then there will be nothing, an eternal blackness. Though perhaps it may seem paradise, after what comes before.’

‘I am Pyre, the First of His Line,’ he intoned, blade steady as Rhythm had taught him in that distant past when he had been Thistle, still backing away slowly, slowly, and the demon following after him as if they were two participants in a dance. ‘And to me was promised the world.’

The demon saw the gate in the instant before it struck him, nearly enough time for it to make a dash – nearly but not quite, not even with its inhuman alacrity. Somewhere far upslope the locks had gone into effect, the flow of the water reversed, thousands of clove of stone dropping tight and seamless into its niche. It was enough weight to crush a boulder, enough weight to bend a bridge, though apparently not enough weight to kill the demon outright; half its torso and its long neck and one crippled arm and its perfect head and its beautiful eyes were left blinking at Pyre, still furious, still hateful, though dimming rapidly.

It was not until the demon was trapped that Pyre got a proper look at it, a look at it as more than a demon, more than the despised thief of Pyre’s identity and future, more than as the implacable and absolute enemy of his race. And in that instant Pyre felt a profound sense of confidence wash over him; more than confidence, a sense of destiny, a certainty that most men, hopes taken up with thoughts of wealth or women, are never bold enough to dream. Because the demon that had been chasing him through the sewers, the demon that he had trapped beneath the falling gate, was the same demon that had killed Rat three years earlier, that had murdered Pyre’s best friend out of pique or cruelty or sheer boredom, that had, as much as anything, set Thistle on the path to becoming Pyre. And what more proof could Pyre need that the demon had been wrong, its last words as false as everything else it had ever spoken? For not only did the gods exist but they smiled down upon Pyre, found favour in his actions, had made him an agent of providence, the herald and executor of divine justice, justice so long denied.

The demon was still not dead, an unbelievable truth but a truth all the same, a thousand clove of stone severing its spine, blood bubbling up through its mouth, a burnt maroon that was darker than the blood of a man. It did not scream and it did not quiver, not even in the instant when Pyre brought the point of his blade down through the back of its neck, severing its spine and killing it instantly, man or demon that was an injury from which no creature could survive.

The thing that emerged from the sewers was soaked red down to his shoulders, and carried in one hand an unbalanced sphere of pink, the spindly white of bone trailing below it. The road was empty so late in the evening, but it would be busy tomorrow, it would be filled with porters on their way to the docks, and then locals coming to see the impossibility made manifest, and shortly after the Cuckoos, wide-eyed, worthless, cleaning up and barring the way because they had no other idea what to do.

But then there was only Pyre, First of His Line, splattered with blood and shit, missing one boot from the struggle – and, by coincidence, a youth of the Fifth, come back from or on his way to some errand of petty foolishness or malfeasance. A child who might have been Thistle, who might one day even be Pyre.

‘What are you?’ the boy asked.

‘The future,’ Pyre informed him, then slipped back down into the slurp.

T
here was no way to avoid the escort that had been arranged for them, an officer and three custodians, large but soft. Indeed, they seemed very much like children to Eudokia, in their silly-looking robes, ill-fitting and ugly, with their ferules more like toys than weapons. Their leader had introduced himself with an obeisance better suited to an expensive courtesan than a master of arms. Jahan had stared at him for a long moment, heavy eyes dull as ever, then he had snorted and sucked at the end of his moustache and returned to being studiously indifferent to the world around him, declining to join Eudokia and Leon in the palanquin, shuffling along behind.

As a rule, new things did not happen in the Roost, and so the news of the Shrike’s death had spread through the city like a tenement fire. A week since his body, or some part of it, had been left to rot on the Fifth, and still no one could speak of anything else. For three days there had been a curfew enforced across the Roost; upslope there was nothing but shuttered windows and bolted doors and even the Perennial Exchange had been closed. As for what was going on downslope, no one seemed to be able to say with certainty. There were reports of massed groups of Cuckoos marching through the streets, stiffened with the occasional Eternal, searching for the Shrike’s killer and not being particularly careful about whether they found him.

Leon leaned against the soft leather seats of the palanquin, holding the silk curtains with one hand, sunlight and a general aura of misfortune leaking in. They passed a group of Cuckoos, looking dirtier and meaner and rather more savage than those who were escorting them, had a line of youths faced up blindly against a wall. For half a minute as they progressed downslope Eudokia could make out strands of speech: ‘wasn’t me, wasn’t us, don’t know nothing, never heard of him, never heard of anyone,’ the common refrain to be made out in any slum anywhere in the world.

‘By Enkedri, they look so miserable.’

Eudokia shrugged and settled back into her cushions. ‘They look poor, Leon. Do you imagine there are no slums in Aeleria? On our return to the capital you might take a stroll round the outskirts of the docks – though bring Jahan along, less you lose your life during this object lesson.’

‘This is not my first encounter with poverty, Auntie,’ Leon said, and to his credit he did not close the curtain. ‘But I don’t think I’ve ever seen despair quite like this.’

Eudokia took a sip of her watered-down wine and considered the matter. ‘Perhaps. Our unfortunates can, at least, console themselves with thoughts of national destiny, or of religion at least, though a meal sanctioned with prayer is no more filling. But I think it more likely that the juxtaposition between the start and end of our journey exaggerates in your mind the extent of the depravity. Grime is grime, famine is famine, and despair the universal constant of the species, the single blessing which the gods distribute among the faithful and unbelieving alike.’

‘The gods did not decree this squalor,’ Leon said. ‘The gods did not pack them into tenements or deprive them of any chance for improvement. This misery is attributable to four-fingered hands.’

‘You think them unique in this? You suppose it is some curiosity of their species, unshared by ours? Surely I’ve taught you better than that. A second helping, a larger share. It is in our nature, nephew, to mistake our wants for needs and to suppose any good fortune well-earned. If the gods did not decree that the poor be miserable, then they decreed that humanity care more about their own desires than the well-being of a stranger, which is the same thing in practice.’

‘Then there is no hope for them?’

‘They might rise, I suppose. Tear down what the Eternal have built, nest in their homes. But that would only be to change the pilot, and not the ship’s course.’

‘You have no great excess of optimism in you, Auntie.’

‘I’m not sure I agree. I have great faith in the happy outcomes of those plans put in motion by Eudokia. As for that far larger portion of human events, well,’ she shrugged. ‘A sure path to madness, despairing over things that cannot be changed. Another date?’

‘Thank you,’ Leon said, ‘no.’

Eudokia took it instead, chewing through the sweet leathery pith, flinging the stone out the window.

‘Why, exactly,’ Leon asked, pulling shut the curtain and sitting back to face his aunt, ‘are we doing this?’

‘I need to meet a man.’

‘At your age!’

Eudokia snorted.

‘For what purpose?’ Leon asked.

Though of course this did not receive an answer.

‘Why exactly is my presence necessary for the resolution of this … as yet undefined liaison?’ Leon asked.

‘I had the vague though unpleasant suspicion that our escort might prove a hindrance to the free passage of information which is at the heart of all useful discussion.’

‘And you imagined I might do something to help alleviate this situation?’

‘Such had been my hope.’

‘Then I’m to be the architect of a stratagem without appreciating its purpose?’

‘Exactly,’ Eudokia confirmed.

‘And why would I be willing to help you?’

‘Apart from maternal piety?’

Leon laughed.

‘Because you’ll enjoy yourself doing it. A simple thing, all told, just distract the captain and his men for ten minutes or so, when I give you the signal.’

‘How do you suggest I perform such a feat?’

‘I’m sure something will come to you in the moment.’

‘You rely a great deal on my wit.’

The palanquin had come to a halt. A knock against the side and Jahan pulled loose the curtain. ‘Of course,’ Eudokia said before alighting, ‘you are my nephew, after all.’

Eudokia was no sailor, had no particular interest in the docks as such, and indeed at first glance found little of fascination. Larger than Aeleria’s, grander, busier, but the essential features of the thing – the stone quay, the porters alighting overladen from the bellies of the caravels and dhows, the fake beggars and the strutting whores and the foam-maddened sailors, they were not so very different from anywhere else in the world. ‘Magnificent,’ Eudokia lied neatly to the captain of the custodians, who stood stiffly beside her. ‘As is everything in your fair city.’

Leon shuffled out of the palanquin a few moments later, looking as if he had spent the brief interim drinking a bottle of liquor in a rapid fashion. His shirt was half-tucked into his trousers and freshly stained with wine, and he blinked at the sun as if its presence was an unhappy surprise. ‘What in the name of the Self-Created are we doing here, Auntie?’ he asked, in a tone far from his usual patrician lilt.

‘This, dear nephew,’ Eudokia continued with a disheartened look at the captain and his men, ‘is the greatest port in the world. Ships from the length of the coast and from far beyond come here to trade, from Chazar and old Dycia, from—’

‘Yes, yes, wood, sail, rope, hairy men. We have ships in Aeleria, and they look very much the same. I cannot possibly see what it is that required my attendance during this little escapade, and before noon at that.’

Eudokia could feel a smile spreading to the corners of her mouth, hid it with a grimace and turned to the captain. ‘You’ll have to forgive my nephew – he’s … a bit—’

Leon burped loudly. ‘Where can we find something to eat around here, Captain? My aunt sups on nothing but fruit, and after a long evening one wishes for something more substantial. Oil is a counterbalance to alcohol, once they’ve both reached the stomach. It’s common knowledge.’

‘I – had not heard that,’ the captain admitted, brushing Leon’s hand off his shoulder and turning back to Eudokia. ‘Was there somewhere in particular you wished to see, Revered Mother?’ His neat hair and his formal bearing were sufficient proof, so far as Eudokia was concerned, that he was spying for the Prime.

‘Nothing in particular,’ Eudokia admitted. ‘The current is heading east – shall we follow it?’

A resolution to which the captain was perfectly pleased to agree. It did not occur to him until later that the current always went east at that time of the morning.

The docks were thick with people, as diverse an array of humans as could be found anywhere on the continent, a packed mass of nations, languages, ethnicities, colours and professions, all happy to make way before their escort of custodians, as the prow of a boat cuts through the water.

‘Why don’t they use the canals to move these goods upslope?’ Leon asked. ‘It seems like it would save everyone a lot of trouble.’

‘The canals are the province of the Eternal alone, sir,’ the captain informed them. ‘We Low-born are forbidden to use them.’

‘For anything?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What if I wanted to say, take an afternoon swim?’

‘That would not be allowed, sir.’

‘But Those Above never use the canals.’

‘No, sir,’ the captain admitted, gazing past and around Leon at the surrounding crowd, committed to the safety of his charges regardless of any personal feelings of enmity. ‘Not often.’

‘I’ve been here in the Roost for months, and I can’t once remember seeing them use one.’

‘Those Above rarely descend below the First, sir.’

‘Exactly, they never descend below the First.’

‘Rarely, sir.’

‘Fine, fine, rarely. But still, so rare that really there could be no very good chance at all that one would be around to see me taking a swim.’

‘That’s not really the point, sir.’

‘I don’t see why I shouldn’t be able to make use of them, if the Well-born don’t feel like doing so. That’s just selfish, that’s all that is.’

‘The canals are forbidden to we Dayspans,’ the captain said, finally beginning to grow angry, ‘as I’ve explained to you several times. It is a law of the Roost, inviolate and absolute, one extending back to the Founding, and I would no more allow it to be disobeyed than I would—’

‘One moment,’ Leon interrupted, a sudden smile on his face, breaking away from the crowd and towards a small food cart perched a precarious few links from the bay. A light-skinned Dycian stood behind a brazier frying bits of meat and red-fleshed pepper. Leon leaned in close and said something to the proprietor in his native tongue, and he smiled and shrugged and responded in kind.

‘Captain, tell me,’ Eudokia began, pointing off towards the bay ‘Where is that ship from?’

The captain’s eyes turned from Leon, following the direction of Eudokia’s finger towards a caravel listing at a far quay. ‘I … can’t say, mistress. I am no seaman.’