The Shattered City (32 page)

Topaz decided then and there she never wanted to meet his friends. ‘Really my own song?'

‘Really,' he said, and his eyes were oddly warm. Usually he was cold as brick. ‘You're the one I've been waiting for, Topaz.' He leaned in, and she expected a kiss or a grope, even after all this time of him keeping his hands to himself, but instead he was measuring her, noting the length of her arms, the width of her shoulders, the span of her waist. ‘You'll even fit the costume,' he said. ‘Nary an alteration. Will you do it, lamb?'

‘Aye,' she said. ‘I'm not cracked. Even if you are.' If he claimed to like her cheek, she could give him plenty. ‘What do I need to do?'

He handed her a crackling piece of paper. ‘Learn the words. We'll start rehearsing this tomorrow, after the others have gone. Don't mind extra work, do you?'

Topaz shook her head wordlessly. Her own song. ‘I still can't stand on my stems without a stick,' she reminded him.

‘Oh, the patrons will love that,' he assured her. ‘I performed with a broken arm once — they felt so sorry for me, it made my career.'

Back in the rosy room in the boarding house, Topaz tried to concentrate on the Princel's scratchy handwriting. It weren't like a song at all, more a sort of children's skipping rhyme. Nothing so toffish she didn't understand all the words, thank the saints.

The landlady who brought her meals on a tray rapped on the door. ‘You've a caller, lovey.' She stuck her face in. ‘Normally I'd insist you see him down in the parlour, but with that leg I'll let him up here if you behave yerselves. Door stays open, understand?'

A pink, embarrassed face appeared at her elbow. ‘It's only Bart,' said Topaz, shoving her new words under a pillow. ‘Don't worry about him, Mistress Nance.'

‘Best not give me any reason to,' the landlady said, but she was grinning a bit like they had a joke to share.

Bart came in, shuffling his feet and avoiding her gaze. ‘Doing all right for yourself here then, Topaz?'

‘Don't give me a hard time,' she sighed. ‘I ain't done a thing to ask for this, and you know it. He's bonkers, that's all, the Princel.'

‘Aye,' said Bart, his face creasing into a bit of a smile. He looked at her finally. ‘Reckon he is. You're all right, then?'

‘Apart from a broken stem, and that'll mend.'

‘Does it hurt?' He came over and prodded thoughtfully at the bandage.

‘Ey, leave off!' she protested as a jolt of pain shot through her.

‘Sorry. Just, you know. It's rum, all this.' Bart looked around the room like he was expecting to be chucked out at any minute.

‘It won't last long, just until I'm back on my feet,' she assured him, and burning devils couldn't have forced her to tell him about the solo song, not right then.

There was plenty she couldn't tell him about. Like the dreams she had, nox and day alike, all rats and mice painted with stagepaint and draped in satin flounces, dancing madly across the stage.

He'd reckon she was as cracked as the Orphan Princel if she spilled a word about that.

‘Not long to go till the Bestialia,' Bart said with half a grin. ‘Reckon we'll kill the audience dead?'

Topaz's first thought was ‘Bloody hope not', but she had the sense not to say that one aloud. ‘Course we will,' she said, thinking of the song under her pillow. ‘We'll be stellar. Try and stop us.'

T
ell me about the lie you told
, said Heliora.

Rhian had been working hard to keep the voices of the Seers out of her head. She was able to quiet most of them, and keep the cacophony of troubled souls from overwhelming her, except for first thing in the morning and last thing before she went to sleep.

One voice stayed, though, and now that the others were quiet, Heliora was sharper and clearer than before.

‘This isn't really you,' Rhian told her as she made her bed and swept the floor. ‘You're dead.'

Of course I'm dead. Don't get distracted by details. I want to know about Lupercalia.

‘No.' Rhian pushed and pushed until Heliora's voice was a small leaf, drifting alone on a wide, dark lake. ‘Go away.'

She had spent so long working to forget that day, yet thanks to the false Heliora in her head, the memories kept overwhelming her when she least expected it.

Rhian had always loved the way that her mind was clear to think as she worked, and now she wished it was otherwise.

I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours
, said Heliora, bobbing to the surface of her mind again as Rhian laid armfuls of flowers out on the kitchen table for garland preparation. Another set of Sacred Games was here, and it wouldn't be the Ludi Aufleuris without roses by the bucketload — red to throw to the gladiator you loved, white to compliment their skill, the rarer purple and gold blooms to offer patronage or sponsorship, and the powerful-smelling common pink to hurl into the arena just because.

Rhian trimmed the stalks savagely, one by one. ‘You're not here. I don't owe you anything. Go away.'

She felt the old Seer shift within her mind, and felt a shiver as if invisible fingers had stroked her hair.
Tell me
.

 

I should never have gone out alone, not with the streets awash with drunkards and lechers celebrating the Lupercalia. I knew it at the time, though I could think of little but the council contracts and what they meant to us. The courier's lateness was not our fault, but that did not mean we would not be fined or dropped to make room for some other favoured team of garlanders.

I was followed by two thugs in wolf skins who teased and taunted me along the Forum, and I did not manage to shake them off until I reached the Lake of Follies. I crouched by the lanterns and the water, gasping for breath, waiting to recover my sensibilities.

Fool, I had been such a fool. At the very least I should have told the others I was going, given them a chance to join me or force me to stay home. Hidden by trailing
strands of bunting from the dancing revellers and the stink of honey wine, I let myself feel safe again. A little longer, and I would have the courage to walk home with my wits about me.

I did not hear them coming until they were on top of me, voices laughing and cruelly mocking, hands biting into my hands and legs, forcing me forwards until I lost my balance.

The hands pushed me into the cold water of the Lake of Follies, holding me under.

Then you were there. The voices of the Seers, for the very first time, jeering voices crowding my thoughts (inside my head, inside my head) even as the hands pushed me down again and again.

Visions unfolded before me, of blood and horror, of people I loved doing terrible things, of blades and pain and buildings crumbling to dust. I screamed to see myself wielding a blade, cutting a man into pieces as if he were a goat ready for sacrifice. I seemed too calm in that other place. Untouchable, carved of ice. Roots burst out of my feet and hands, holding my victims in place. Water dripped along my skin, earth crumbled out of my nose and mouth, and the winds whipped hard and fast around us.

I was a monster, and a murderess.

I saw myself hold that knife, cutting the flesh away as easily as stripping thorns from stems. He twitched and writhed beneath my hands, so afraid of what I could do. I felt what it was like to be her, that other me. Felt the glee and the glory. She — I — enjoyed making him scream. She took satisfaction from it. It thrilled in my veins. More visions came, thick and fast, more versions of myself, each worse than the last. I coughed and choked on the water of the lake. I killed and maimed. I was chained and beaten.
Thorns dug into every inch of my body. Hands bound me to a stake and set me alight.

I could still smell the smoke when I rocked back on my heels, beside the lake. My hands were shaking wildly, and it was a long time before I could stand. My clothes and hair were dry. There were no hands, no people around me. No one had pushed me in the lake. I was going mad, that much was obvious.

 

I walked home slowly, barely noticing the capering men in their animal suits, or the thick smell of wine and vomit and sweaty leather. The wind was cold, but I had left my shawl beside the lake. I could not think of anything except my own madness. The visions clung to me.

What was causing this? What had I done to deserve it?

I was three streets from our home when the men grabbed me. It seemed to be a jest at first. They were laughing as one of them spun me around, dancing to the music of a nearby flute. Another grabbed my hips, ground himself against me, his false phallus digging into my stomach. Then there was a whiff of sour breath, and I realised they were not letting me go. They backed me against the nearest building, four of them, maybe five, still laughing, talking amongst themselves, slurring obscenities, laying claims as to which one would have me first.

I felt strangely passive, outside myself. They thought they could hurt me? I was already broken. How could they do more … Then one of them shoved his hands between my thighs, and I snapped to attention. That woman, the cold-eyed Rhian with the knives who sacrificed men like beasts. She would never let this happen to her.

Six drunk men in Lupercalia goatskins, shrugging aside their costumes and false phalluses to free up their real
erections. A demme's body was just another festival token to them. I knew what they intended to do to me. They didn't see anything in me to be afraid of. Why should they? I saw, though. I saw everything. I saw their futures. One man watching the birth of his daughter, face gentled with shock and love. One man slapping his wife to the floor. One man coughing blood from his lips as he lay dying of a wasting illness. One man proud of his new business, opening for customers. One man … saints, I knew that one, I had bought timbers from him to build our kitchen table, he had been inside our house …

I took their futures away from them.

Something burned brightly inside me, went through me … and the smell of honey wine and sour leathers was suddenly overpowered by burning flesh.

The men started screaming, clutching at their own skin as if they could claw it out of them. Heat washed over me as they collapsed to their knees. They were alive through it all, their screams swallowed by the noise and madness of the crowd. There was not a mark on any of them; no sign of the flames.

I tried to end it. They stopped screaming, at least, but they lay so still on the ground and when I found it in me to touch them, they were chill to the touch, and there was nothing left of them that was human. Their twisted limbs and agonised faces were sculpted in stone.

I walked away, stepping over their granite limbs and frozen faces, leaving them behind in my haste to escape what I had done. But the visions I had, the futures that those men would never see, they stayed with me. They are with me still.

As are you all.

 

I was a monster, I was a victim, I was broken, I was crazy. I cut my braid from my scalp. It was all I could do not to cut deeper, dragging every hair from my head. I was dirty, I was filthy, I was a killer. Blood, blood, I couldn't get it out of my head, couldn't concentrate on anything but cleansing myself, scrubbing away the horrors, letting it all drip out of me. I couldn't kill myself, I didn't deserve such a release, but I could make myself hurt and bleed. That was how they found me, cuts welling in my skin. I was a demon, I was a witch, I was …

Now do you see? Now do you see what I have been hiding from, what I have been trying to prevent from happening again? There were times I managed to convince myself it had just been a strange turn, that it hadn't happened, that the heat had just stirred my imagination into something ridiculous and cruel. That I was raped, by four men, or five, and the rest was a crazy dream I had made up, an elaborate revenge fantasy to hide the truth of it from myself.

But then Velody brought them home, one by one, the Lords and Court and Kings and sentinels, speaking of animor and cats and power and the sky falling. It was real. Anything was possible. These people would not blink to hear of a person who could burn men from the inside or turn them into stone. Nor would they hesitate to put me down if they thought I was a danger to them. They had their own power, their own monstrous abilities. They were like me.

But can you honestly say that Delphine or Macready would forgive me for what I have done? That Velody would have forgiven me? I can't even forgive myself.

 

Delphine left the Palazzo after spending half a day ignoring Ashiol's attempts to pretend he was sane. She
had left Crane in her place, and was surprised to find Macready waiting for her on the road. He fell into step beside her as she walked down the hill.

They had been avoiding each other for the most part since that day she had taken surrender and Ashiol's mind had broken once and for all. It was only the business of being a sentinel between them now, or at least Delphine assumed so.

It was best that it was over. She couldn't stand sleeping with someone who was so damned good about everything, and she absolutely hated anyone having expectations of her. She was bound to be a disappointment.

It wasn't like he was that great in bed.

Delphine was tired. If he had something to say, he should just say it now. She didn't want to fight when they got home. She didn't want to fight at all. She wanted to sleep. Halfway along Via Cinqueline, Macready reached out and took her hand. ‘Let me show you something.'

She frowned as he led her into a narrow alleyway between two shops. ‘What are we doing here? There are spiders!'

‘I spotted this place a while back,' he said lightly. ‘Thought it would make a fine nest, so it would.'

‘So? What's that got to do with me?' Macready looked at her. She looked back, waiting. Then the centi dropped. ‘You want me to make a nest? I don't know how!'

‘I wasn't going to stand here and watch you make it up as you go along,' he said, rolling his eyes at her. ‘I'll teach you, if you've a mind to it. Now, take your blades out, the skysilver sword and knife. Just so.'

He turned Delphine gently to face the wall. She could
hear the clank and rattle on the other side of dishes being washed, and the acrid scent of pulses on the boil. ‘There are people in there.'

‘It's of no matter. That's not where you're going.' His voice was low, and his breath tickled the back of her neck. ‘A nest is a new space. It's not entirely of the city. Now, lay your blades against the wall.'

She did so, first the knife blade and then the sword.

‘Imagine a space opening up, a room, a place of safety,' Macready told her, still in that low, firm voice that had her heating up from the inside out. Delphine did as he told her, for once. She felt the prickle of the skysilver against the skin of her hands, and imagined a safe place like the first nest that Macready had taken her to.

She gasped as the skysilver came awake under her hands, and she could feel the wall opening up at her command. Macready kept with her, murmuring encouragement and instructions as Delphine stretched the city wide open, creating a nest for herself.

Finally, exhausted, she fell through into a small and lopsided space full of new air which tasted of skysilver. She gasped in the air, laughing. She had done it. She had no idea what she had done, but it was hers, and it felt safe in a way nowhere else had felt safe in a very long time.

Macready stood above her, grinning all over his stupid face. ‘You can seal it with a blade, or with your hand once you're accustomed —' he said, and probably would have said more if she hadn't lunged herself at him, kissing him to shut him up.

‘Is that what it's like for them?' she said breathlessly, still bathed in the afterglow of what she had done. ‘When they use animor?'

Macready's eyes were a little unfocused from the kissing. ‘It's better,' he said, holding her hips steady so that she did not twist away from him. ‘Because it's ours.'

She smiled, and pulled him down on to the floor of her new nest. They tugged and fumbled at each other's clothes, grinding possessively against each other.

Yes, all right then. This probably counted as a relationship.

 

Some time later, Delphine and Macready reached the little courtyard behind her house. She felt sore and dishevelled, and deliberately didn't invite him in, pretending not to see the disappointed look on his face.

Rhian sat at the kitchen table, with armfuls of hacked-apart roses spread out on the table before her. She was still cutting them, slicing through ruined flower heads, spreading them out into messy patterns. There were colours everywhere, bruised and slashed petals tumbling off the edge of the table and on to the floor.

‘Are you all right?' Delphine asked, letting the door fall closed behind her. Rhian looked up and there was something awful about her eyes. ‘Mac!' Delphine screamed, and he was there in moments, slamming back the door and crossing the threshold.

‘Lass?'