Quartz (24 page)

“I escaped from Blackstone because of the dark. I thought there would be light always in Ironheart, but it is not so. They are everywhere—even were I to go to Shimmer, they would await me.” Peony was accepting, even ecstatic. “And now, I don’t need to fear them any longer.” He ran, staggering, to the edge of the roof. Rafe had barely time to shout—a wordless cry, a plea, a roar, full of anger and desperation—and Peony was falling, a black figure against the brilliant backdrop of crimson and gold, head down, arms stretched out in embrace.

Then the smoke rolled in and the fire leapt and he was gone.

The house beneath Rafe shuddered. With a start, he realized that the leading edge of the fire was coming ever closer, that the heat was a thick palpable cocoon all about him and the smoke was moving to enshroud him. He whirled and ran down the way he had come, leaping, sliding, tiles scattering, houses swaying andcrackling all around him. The cables whined and, with a great groan, a length of rope-like steel came crashing down just ahead of Rafe, slicing through a house. Rafe jumped the gap and kept running.

Once off the houses, off the slope, Rafe looked wildly around the deserted streets. He did not know the way and there was no one to ask. He set off away from the fire, picking larger, broad streets, afraid of running into dead ends. Small fires simmered here and there, brought into life by the embers and sparks thrown down by the wind—wind blowing the fire toward the heart of the city.

All cities had their shady parts and Ironheart was no exception. Rat Town lay cradled by two arms of water in the river delta, a soggy salty triangle of muck that smelled of fish and sewage, and was too waterlogged to burn. Rivulets ran everywhere, worming through the soil, lining the paths. Two stone bridges connected this undesirable address to the rest of Ironheart. Tonight it was crammed full of soot-stained refugees, sleeping in the mud.

Rafe stumbled among the prone bodies, so catatonic from misery and horror that they didn’t respond when he tripped over them. A Sister of Selene, her headdress still starched and white and spread out like sails, gave him a once-over and decided that he was not hurt enough for her attention. The reclusive and stern Sisters only came out among people during times of physical distress.

He found Isabella in the trampled mud by the water, holding a lone candle in one hand. Fragile wisps of wax, wicks alight, bobbed gently in the waves. Flames of remembrance, lit for the dead, the dying, the missing. Rafe remembered lighting them for his grandfathers.

He hung back, questions heavy in his throat, as she dipped the candle into first one, then another, then more of the wax flowers scattered next to her. Tiny points of light winked into existence. Isabella blew out the taper, put it down, and cradled one of the wax flowers in her palm. After a moment, she laid it on the water. Rafe felt a sudden sharp sadness, though he could barely tell why. Her face did not change, nor did her strong straight posture, but there was something deeply tender about the way she held each in her hands before gently laying it on the water, like a mother laying her babe to rest in its cradle.

He realized, with a sense of shock, that he might be seeing the real Isabella here.

She sat back on her heels, and said, looking out across the dark waters where the tiny lights flickered, “You came back.”

“Peony’s dead.” He didn’t want to elaborate and he thought Isabella understood. “Felicity?”

She shook her head. “Not here. She most likely made it to the coast. It’ll be safer and cleaner there.”

Or she was dead, trampled by the terrified mob, crushed by debris, or attacked by the evil scum that always surfaced in times like these.

“How’s Coop?”

She half-turned, stared at him. “Back there, freshly bandaged. On a luxurious inch-thick pallet all his own.”

“Will he recover?”

Isabella considered. “He probably will. But it would too much to expect that he’ll forget the krin possession so easily. He’ll carry some of that darkness with him forever. It was in him already, that darkness, and that’s what attracted them. He was already angry at you. They just inflamed it.”

Rafe dropped beside her. “They meaning the krin.”

She nodded.

“What are they, Isabella?”

She spoke in his ear, breath warm. “Ageless creatures of legend. They feed on emotions and ka, the quartz-energy, live in darkness, hate the light. Only a few can fight them for they twist your thoughts, and make you see and believe things that are not there.”

“People like you and Karzov.”

“Yes, only Karzov seems to be using them for his own ends.”

“How can he do that?”

Isabella took in a deep breath. “They’re intelligent. And hungry. They work for him in return for food.”

“People, you mean.”

“Yes.”

Rafe paused for a moment. “So light kills them?”

“If it’s strong enough. It unravels their being. Explosively. Which is why they must be dealt with carefully.”

Rafe remembered the being in the mine disintegrating, and Isabella calling him to stop, and shuddered. “And that’s why they won’t want the Tors Lumena uncovered?”

Isabella nodded. “Unless they’re protected inside human bodies. That’s probably what Karzov is offering them. People, to wear and eat.” Her nostrils flared.

“Who knows about them? Besides in stories?”

“Only a few. Plus you.” She shot him a smile that was full of bleak irony. “The people must never find out about them. The krin thrive on terror. Ignorance is what keeps most people safe. If they were forever thinking about the krin, it would be like a beacon to the Soul Eaters, calling them to feast. You’ve seen how they can twist a person. Now imagine a whole district, turned into that.”

“And when they kill?”

“You saw the corpses.”

Rafe thought, examining these revelations in a mind leached of all feeling save exhaustion, crystalline, clear. “I need to get back to Oakhaven. We need the rest of the Keys.”

Isabella stood. “You can get on the ambassador’s boat if you hurry to the coast.”

“And you?”

“Ironheart is dark. I have work to do.”

“S
IR
?” S
TAZI
C
APTAIN
G
ORVICH
saluted even though the Shadow, watching his handiwork through the single paneless window, had his back to him. What this establishment lacked in amenities—such as vermin-free bedding, drinkable beer, and graffiti-less walls—it made up for in secrecy and location. “We’re ready to go.”
And not a moment too soon.

“Wonderful, isn’t it?” Karzov’s voice was soft and dreamy. “Come over by the window, Gorvich, and see what we have wrought. Makes you proud to be a Blackstonian, doesn’t it?” He beckoned. Gorvich came over reluctantly and peered through the small gap.

“It is, sir, quite a sight,” said Gorvich, awkwardly and truthfully. A sight created by a dozen of his men, now all dead, suicides in this mad and unnatural attack. To burn down a city like this, to recreate the Scorching! Inside his mind, the man he was when out of uniform sobbed at the destruction. That inner man was but a sliver of his former self now. Lately, even when he undressed, he was still in his uniform.

“This mission is a great success, and you have played your part wonderfully well, Gorvich.” Karzov gave him a beaming smile that made Gorvich’s skin crawl. “You will be happy to know that I personally requested you be promoted into the Secret Fist. Well, what do you think?” He bounced on his toes like a child demanding that his gift-giving be praised.

Gorvich stared at the shorter man in wonder. How can he not know that I despise and loathe him? Then, catching the flat shark-gleam in those eyes,
Of course he knows. He’s enjoying doing this to me!

“I’m honored, sir, but we are not yet done with the mission. The boat is ready, sir, and the cargo is um… getting restless.”

“Of course! I must go to them at once and soothe their fears.” Karzov turned away from the window finally and minced toward the door Gorvich held open for him. “You know,” he added confidingly, as Gorvich shut the door and they walked the length of the cracked-concrete balcony outside, its iron railings corroded by salt and sea air, “I
do
believe I have a special way with children. They are so charmed by me!”

Gorvich thought of those hopeless little faces, those thin frames chained by hastily-adjusted manacles, shackled in the dark hold of a vessel stinking of fish, piss, and despair, and thought that might be the most obscene thing he’d ever heard.

Aloud he said, “I believe you’re right, sir.” The lie slid smooth as grease down his lips, sank barbs into his conscience, ripped away a piece of his soul.

Karzov looked pleased. “If we can find even one with some kayan talent, the weapon will be complete. It’s a pity about the Key, though. That Oakhavenite really is a pest.” He shrugged. “He should be dead now, but if not, there’s that sister of his to use as leverage. Your first assignment as Fist is to go fetch her for an extended stay with us.”

“Yes, sir.” And the man Gorvich had been out of uniform faded a little more, like Selene climbing toward her zenith, diminished by slivers.

R
AFE CLENCHED HIS HANDS
over the balustrade while below him the honorable lords and ladies of Oakhaven voted to occupy the badly-damaged and struggling state of Ironheart.

Oh, they couched it in terms of syrupy concern, using the hushed voices of those forced to revoke a senile great-aunt’s shopping privileges or browbeat dependents into good behavior. What was really happening was that Oakhaven no longer recognized Ironheart’s ability to govern itself and was stepping in like a magnanimous older brother to take over.

The debate had raged for several days, instigated by Bryerstar’s testimony of a broken Ironheart, its desperate populace needing succor. It was a ragged torn debate, tossed back and forth like a ball in an unruly street game, full of interruptions, passions, name-calling, and the like. It had been all at odds with the serenity of the Assembly Building, the discussion bouncing off the domed ceiling depicting King Roger the First accepting the Key of Oakhaven from the Kayan Rishtar. Rafe raised his gaze towards Roger’s gilded crown and painted face, if only to calm his own rage. Meanwhile, down below, the Officiator tolled out the names and votes of all the Assembly members. Reporters in the Press Pen scribbled furiously on their paper pads. They were fewer than Rafe remembered. It was not a good time to be a newspaper man during Roland’s intellectual purge.

A name tugged at his ear; the Marquis of Rocquespur had voted for the takeover, bringing all his five votes with him. The motion passed by a majority of three. Rafe glared at the purple-and-gold figure of the Marquis, looking as serene and smug as Roger on the ceiling.

“Don’t frown so, dear. Your face will freeze like that.” Amanthea glided up beside him.

Rafe turned a slight smile at her, too distracted by the events below.

Amanthea coughed slightly. “You had an interesting time of it in Ironheart.” Rafe had given her a brief expurgated account of what had happened, leaving the krin out entirely. “Have you been having any more—headaches, my dear?” She probed delicately, as if inquiring about unmentionable maladies.

“Nothing that I can’t handle,” said Rafe. In truth, the use of his meager talents—he still had trouble elevating himself even to the status of rohkayan—had laid him open to what seemed like every trickle of quartz energy—or ka as Isabella had called it—in the city. It manifested as a case of acid stomach, and he’d been reduced to old lady remedies like constant cups of peppermint tea.

“Your uncle has been looking for you.” Amanthea put her hand over Rafe’s. Veins stood out in her translucent skin. “Come away. This is not good for you, and you cannot change it.” She tugged his hand and Rafe let her lead him away from the appalling evidence that the state he served had somehow turned into an occupier and bully.

“Do you accept this, Aunt?” he said in a furious whisper . “Do you think it’s right for Oakhaven to occupy another sovereign state like this, no matter how badly they’ve been damaged? I’ve been to Ironheart, I’ve seen their fierce independence. They can get back on their feet without our help.”

For a moment she said nothing, her lace-covered head bowed, her numerous scarves whispering along with them. “No doubt the Ironheart people would get themselves back up in time. But
time
, Rafe, is what we don’t have the luxury of. Not with Blackstone, waiting like a snake, ready to strike. We cannot let Blackstone do to others what it did to Goldmoon.”

Blackstone, again. Blackstone that was behind the sabotage of Ironheart, the push for military buildup in Oakhaven. Rafe was tired of Blackstone calling the shots and everyone else reacting.

“Leo’s waiting for you in the gallery, here,” Amanthea stopped. “You’ll excuse me?” Then both she and Rafe stiffened as a draft meandered through the corridor, bringing with it a sharp burnt smell. Both peered in that direction, ever-vigilant about the threat of fire after recent events.

“Some of the cooks bringing a platter of meat for the Assemblymen’s lunch, I expect.” Amanthea shook her head. “Really, the people who work here are most careless about leaving open flames in unused rooms. Why, I’ve been moving lamps and candles away from drapery all morning long! Oh, and Rafe? Do fix your hair before you see anyone important!” She hurried off, probably to remonstrate with either the cooks for burning the meat or the lamplighters for leaving unattended candles. He smiled because she obviously did not consider Leonius Grenfeld to be “anyone important”.

Rafe stepped into the gallery, where the government of Oakhaven displayed the national art that had not wound up in private collections like Leo’s or in the palace. That left very little in the hands of the common people. There were no kayan artifacts here, for example, just the work of lesser masters.

Leo tipped his head up to glower at a dreamy cityscape, all flowing silver and green, with pools of soft grey shadows, seen as if through rippled glass.