The Shattered City (34 page)

R
hian loved the swordplay. She had not expected to, but there was a pleasure in reminding herself that she was physically strong, and that she could do something other than bind flowers and ribbons together. In another life, she might have been a carpenter or a builder, someone with clever hands and muscular arms who worked with the sun beating down on her head.

For now, she had this.

Macready trained with Delphine every other afternoon, and every single time she would act surprised that he had turned up, and pretend there was some work that had to be finished first. She liked to make him wait — her way of keeping him in his place. Delphine never did like anyone thinking she was at their beck and call.

Macready never let on whether it bothered him; not to Rhian, anyway. He just grinned and asked her out into the yard instead. They could usually get in a good hour
or so of a lesson before Delphine made her grudging appearance.

Rhian tried not to resent her for having everything, for the best hour of her day being contingent on Delphine's borrowed sword and her borrowed man.

‘Stay with us,' Macready called as Rhian headed for the house.

She shook her head and smiled. She had promised an old friend she would supply two trays of cupboard wreaths and nosegays for the final day of the Great Market, and that was as fine an excuse as any to close the door on their banter and flirting.

You worry too much about what people think of you,
said Heliora as Rhian shut herself away in the workroom again.

‘It matters,' Rhian said impatiently. She only ever replied to the dead Seer's goading when she was tired or melancholy. The rest of the time, she could shut her away. ‘Of course it matters. Velody and Delphine are all I've ever had.'

That's not true,
said Heliora.
You had a brother. Parents.

‘I don't remember them,' Rhian said quickly. ‘You know I don't remember them.'

Interesting, that,
Heliora mused.
You were touched by animor and Court before Velody ever was. So why don't you remember Tierce and your family? Maybe if you just opened yourself up to your powers, you could see them again. Let them back into your memory …

Rhian took down bunch after bunch of roses and lilacs she had dried by hanging them upside down from the ceiling and laid out her tools, concentrating on staying here in this moment, not allowing Heliora's voice to push her into the futures. ‘So I can hurt with the
losing of them? No. I don't need those memories. I don't need any of this. I don't need anything but —'

Delphine and Velody was her usual answer, but Velody was gone, and Delphine was unreliable as all hells, and Rhian had never felt more alone in her life.

She won't leave you alone,
Heliora said softly.

‘She doesn't know what I've done,' replied Rhian.

I know what you've done and I'm not going anywhere.

‘Very reassuring,' Rhian sighed.

 

Another time, later in the month, when Delphine and Macready were training in the yard, and Rhian had no tasks to be done, she shut herself away in her room, ignoring the clash of swords and laughter from below. Heliora asked her:
What frightens you most?

‘You know what frightens me,' Rhian replied. She hated the end of the month, when there were rarely festivals to keep her busy. She needed to work.

Apart from Delphine finding out that you're a bloodthirsty murderess who can turn men to stone.

‘It's not a joke,' Rhian said furiously. ‘It's not funny.'

I died before my twenty-seventh birthday
, Heliora drawled.
How's that for a joke?

‘Don't make this about you,' snapped Rhian. ‘You're not even real. The real Heliora died in the street with a sword in her hand. You're just an echo of her.' There was silence after that, and she jumped up almost in fright at the thought that Heliora might have left her alone. ‘Are you there? Come back!' More silence. ‘I need you,' Rhian said wretchedly.

Of course you do
, said Heliora, sounding smug.

Rhian sighed and flopped back on her bed. ‘Don't do that again.'

You care about what Macready thinks
, Heliora went on.
You let him put a sword in your hand. You let him get closer to you than any other man. You think he won't burn? He's not a Lord or a Creature King. Just another man. Or is it that you trust him not to touch you, not to take advantage? Do you think he'll never make you angry enough to be a danger to himself?

Rhian wished Heliora was here, really here, so at least she had someone to direct her glare at. ‘I hardly think about Macready at all,' she said.

Interesting
, said Heliora, in a tone so knowing that it made Rhian's cheeks flame red.
Shall I tell you who my favourite lover was?

Was this Rhian's life now? Gossiping with a dead person who had taken up residence in her head? ‘I think I can guess.'

Oh, not Ashiol; I grew out of him years ago. He's good — no denying it — and I spent my younger years adoring him like an idiot. But a demme gets tired of frigging a man whose head is elsewhere. Half the time I wasn't sure if he remembered which one I was.

If Rhian needed any further evidence that this voice in herself was something she was not imagining, there it was right there. ‘You're so blunt.'

Well, I'm dead,
said Heliora.
That tends to knock a few corners off.

There was a long silence after that, during which Rhian most definitely did not ask Heliora to identify her favourite lover.

Macready
, said Heliora.

Rhian put a pillow over her own head. Smothering herself was a valid option at this point. ‘I don't want to discuss this any more.'

Because it's about frigging, or because it's about Macready? You can't avoid it. Sex is deeply tangled in the power of the Creature Court — for the Seer most of all.

Rhian clenched her hands into fists. The rules had to be different for her. There was no other choice.

Heliora continued as if she had voiced that thought aloud.
Haven't you got it by now? There are no rules. So why does it bother you that I used to frig Macready?

The shift from one topic to another bothered Rhian. It felt as if Heliora was trying to trick her into an admission of some kind. ‘It doesn't bother me. It's irrelevant.'

Is that what it is?

‘He's my friend. The first male friend I've let myself have since … I don't want to think about him that way.'

Worried that if you do, you'll end up frying him to a crisp?

‘That's not funny. Why do you joke about that? Why do I let you?'

It's been nearly two years since all that happened, Rhian. If you can't find humour in tragedy, you'll end up as crazy as the rest of us. Jumping at shadows, overreacting to every male glance, living some kind of half life … oh, wait!

Rhian was angry now, so angry she could almost hear the crackle of flames. Was that smoke she could smell? Where was it coming from? ‘Don't laugh at me. Don't you dare laugh at me.'

Mockery is all I have left.

‘I want you out of my head!' Rhian cried. Saints, her hands — what was happening to her hands? She fell on her knees beside the bed, staring at her fists. They were grey and rigid, like the stone that she had turned those men into. Then, as she watched, water ran over her
stone fists, and she could move her fingers again. The water dried from her skin rapidly and when she opened her hands wide, dust fell from her palms to shimmer across the floor. ‘Heliora!'

It's no use asking me
, said the Seer, sounding far away now.
That's never happened to me.

‘It's not part of being a Seer?' There it was — the only hope that she might finally have an answer to who and what she was, gone on the wind. Rhian's hands felt like flesh now, but they were still far too cold.

I don't know what you are
, said Heliora.

Could she hear the noise Rhian was making as she fought to stifle a sob of terror? Could she feel the tears run down her face? Rhian did not know. But Heliora kept talking, as if nothing had changed, filling the room with words until Rhian had recovered enough to stand again, and breathe.

I didn't tell you why he was my favourite. He was the most honest of any of them — never said a word he didn't mean, never pretended to care about things he couldn't be bothered with. We were barely even friends, just convenient to each other. But when he was there, he was really there. He paid attention like I was the only person in the world, and he didn't let up until we were done. There was an intensity to him — the same thing you see when there are blades in his hand and a battle in the wind …

That was better. Nothing to do with Rhian. She could stand tall and pretend that they were two ordinary demmes, talking about some fellow, as if the world was not a darker place than it had been only a few moments ago. ‘You're saying he makes love like he fights?' she said lightly, some time later.

All duty and detail
, said Heliora, and Rhian could hear the smirk in her voice.
Believe me — in bed, dutiful doesn't mean dull.

 

A few days after that, Macready brought Rhian a sword. He produced it as if it was nothing special, just an afterthought. ‘This should make things easier, love.'

Rhian stared at him.

‘It's just a sword,' he went on, mistaking her expression. ‘Nothing to do with the Creature Court. I bought it at the Basilica. Thought you'd be better with one suited to your height — borrowing Delphine's has done you no favours.'

He looked at her with those wide, guileless eyes of his. Rhian couldn't find the air to breathe. She turned and ran, hurrying back into the house, bolting her bedroom door, panic crashing in on her from every wall.

Too much, too much, too much, too much.

She heard his baffled voice, some time later, and Delphine's voice beneath her window saying blithely, ‘She does that sometimes, when she's happy. Don't worry about it.'

Happy. Was that what she was? Rhian's pulse was beating so hard that she thought she was going to fly into pieces.

Some time later, they came upstairs together, and though they tried to keep their voices low, she heard every murmur and moan through the walls.

Only the memory of charred flesh and cool stone under her fingertips calmed her thoughts, and what did that say about her?

I really am a monster
.

It's nothing to be ashamed of
, said Heliora.
Wanting to be loved is the most natural urge there is.

He loves Delphine
, thought Rhian, not daring to speak aloud in case they heard her.

Ha! I don't know what the hells is between those two, but I can bet you half a shillein it's not love.

He's good for her. They need each other.

Are you so used to giving and hiding that you've forgotten to want anything for yourself?

I don't matter.

That has to be the stupidest thing you've ever said.

I don't look at him. I never look at him.

Of course you don't. If you did, you might have noticed how often he looks back.

Rhian stretched out on her bed, trying to sleep. They were silent in the room next door, at least.

I lied
, Heliora said, some time later.
Macready wasn't my favourite. It was always Ashiol.

Rhian felt her mouth curve into a smile. ‘I know,' she said in a murmur. ‘I may be crazy, but I'm not stupid.'

S
ometimes it was Rhian who sat with Ashiol, when the others were sleeping or occupied elsewhere. She seemed oddly at home in the Palazzo, and always brought some busywork with her — letters to write, or socks to darn. She was knitting a scarf, and he watched it grow over a series of days, ruddy dark wool the colour of blood.

‘You're not afraid any more,' he said once, eyes on the clicking of her needles.

Rhian smiled faintly. ‘Oh yes I am,' she said. ‘I'm afraid all the time. A door opens and my mind slams shut until I'm so panicked I can hardly breathe. The sheer effort it takes to come here leaves me exhausted for days afterward.' She raised her eyes and looked at him. ‘Keeping my hands busy helps.'

‘But you're here.'

‘Yes, I'm here.'

‘Is Heliora with you?' It was the first time he had asked Rhian about her new powers as the Seer. Even with his mind running at a million miles a minute, he could tell that she was calmer and less prone to anxiety than when he first knew her. The influence of the other Seers, perhaps? Heliora had always hinted that they were in there, inside her somehow, their voices tangled in her head along with the millions of possible futures.

‘I hear her often,' said Rhian. ‘The others too, though she has the strongest voice. It's not what you're hoping for, though. I think it's just memories. The real Heliora is long gone.'

Well, yes. He knew that. How could he not know that?

Ashiol paced back and forth, his energy sparking off his skin, off the walls. ‘I need to get out of here.'

‘You should go then,' Rhian said helpfully.

He stared at her. ‘You'd let me?'

‘I don't see how I'm supposed to stop you. Besides, the dottore's advice isn't doing much for you. You need to find your own path.' She smiled that sweet smile of hers. ‘Want me to send the lictors away?'

Oh, he had underestimated this demme. ‘Yes,' Ashiol breathed. He could run on the rooftops, be himself in the open. ‘Stay away from mirrors,' he told her firmly, one piece of help before he fled and left her in major trouble. ‘If you hear the music, cover your ears. That's how they'll get us, you know.'

Rhian nodded. ‘I'll remember that.'

Strange, that he felt he could trust her more than any of the others. Ashiol waited impatiently while Rhian sent the lictors on an errand, and then he slipped out into the Palazzo corridor to make his escape.

He passed six mirrors on the way out, and turned
each of them facing inwards. He only hoped it could be enough.

The cats that were Ashiol streaked across the grounds of the Palazzo and away, yowling down streets, knocking loose tiles off roofs, terrorising rodents as he went.

His jaws were bloody and paws aching when he finally shaped himself back into himself, on the roof of a temple.

He was still hard and hot and hungry, but the important thing was that he had his freedom. His mind was racing a mile a minute but clear. He could see in all directions.

He wanted to change into chimaera, to tear the sky into threads, to remind himself that his wings were intact instead of the bloody stumps they still were when he managed to sleep deep enough for dreams, but right now he just lay back, body heaving with the sheer exhaustion of having run himself to pieces. The sun was warm on him and he slept, naked and sprawled out in the bright heat of it, all but purring.

When he awoke, Ashiol was not alone. He smelled the perfume and cigarette smoke, and knew it was Livilla before he even opened his eyes.

‘Back in the game, are you?' she asked in a lazy voice.

‘Never left,' he growled.

‘The sentinels have done an almost competent job of hiding the fact that they think you're broken,' she observed, using her absurd cigarette holder to create a flourish.

‘We're all broken.'

‘That's certainly true.' She smiled at him, inhaling the smoke. ‘I like you broken. Always did. Just like the old days.'

The old days. Lithe young bodies tangled together, kittens and cubs. The absence of Garnet was an ache
between them, a silent space.
No, no, not that. Don't think about that
. Ashiol had to keep his head calm or he'd go spiralling off again, and he couldn't afford to lose control. ‘What do you want, Livilla?'

She twirled her cigarette holder around, making patterns of smoke in the air. ‘I want what Tasha wanted, and never thought she could have. I want to be Power and Majesty.'

He laughed at her honesty. ‘You'll have to eat a few of us to get there.'

‘Oh, I can live with that. Don't you think Priest would taste delicious?'

‘Poet's too stringy. Lennoc's too young, barely seasoned. And you're sentimental about the rest of us.'

‘You might think so,' she said. ‘I don't think I'm sentimental about anything any more.'

Ashiol rolled on top of her, his hands pinning her arms back against the tiles, keeping the cigarette holder pointed well away from him. The smoke made him feel ill, but he could smell her underneath the haze and it made him want to lick her.

‘You'd miss me if you quenched my animor and let me die,' he said in a growl.

‘I lived without you for five years,' she said, painted red lips only inches from his. ‘I think I could cope.'

He leaned into her neck, nuzzling. He had always loved her neck. Somewhere underneath the warpaint and the perfumed smoke was his Livilla, the first demme who had really got under his skin.

She loved Garnet more, but that hadn't been a problem at the time. Ashiol loved Garnet more too. Now they were the only ones left. ‘Did he ever hurt you?' he asked, purring into her neck. ‘Like he hurt me?'

Livilla stiffened under him. ‘Let go. Get off me.'

He lifted his face, looking into her eyes. ‘You don't like the question?'

‘I don't like you. Get off me, Ashiol. You're not a cub any more.'

He rolled off her slowly, letting go of her arms.

Livilla sat up, cupping the cigarette holder in both hands (trembling, she was trembling) and inhaled, then blew out a long breath of smoke. ‘Everything's different now.'

‘That's one way of putting it.'

She wouldn't look at him. ‘I mean it, Ash. If you can't get your act together to rule the city, I will.'

‘That's quite a threat.'

‘Being crazy shouldn't stop you. It never stopped you from doing anything before.'

She had a point there.

‘I don't know if I have anything left,' he said. ‘I can't be Garnet, and I sure as fuck can't be Velody.'

‘No, you can't,' she said. ‘But no one's asking for that. We just want to stay alive. We need some hope.'

Ashiol breathed out, slowly. ‘How's your new courtesa working out?'

‘I think she hates me,' Livilla sighed. ‘I kind of like it.'

That made him laugh. ‘You're so twisted.'

‘Right back at you, darling.' She leaned in unexpectedly and gave him a ripe, smacking kiss on the cheek. The kiss of a jolly aunt, not a former lover. ‘Next time the sky falls, I want to see your crazy self in the air. No reason why you should have special treatment.'

He wiped the cosmetick off his cheek. ‘I'll do my best.'

 

Ashiol stopped taking the pills and potions. The sentinels and Isangell didn't notice at first. He became
an expert at hiding them, slipping the pills into his hand or under his tongue, and pouring the potions into vases or out the window. The first thing to go was sleep, but that was fine with him. Who needed sleep?

Unconsciousness until they left him alone in his bedchamber, and then he would shape himself into cats. Cats could squeeze through the bars on the window — the skysilver burned but it was worth it for the escape.

Outside, he would kill and eat warm bodies, crunching the bones with glee, then rampage across the roofs. His cats could nap, at least; small bursts of sleep that kept him going.

Cats were easier than humans in a lot of ways. When he needed to fuck, he sent out the call, and every female cat in heat would flock to him, anxious to be mounted and rutted. The worst danger was having boots flung at them for making so much noise, and his reflexes were still good.

In his rooms at Isangell's, when he was pretending to be human, Ashiol would pace the walls, exercising his body as much as he could in the space. Press-ups, situps, anything to make his muscles work the way they were supposed to. When Delphine was on duty she would watch him shamelessly. Somehow he always managed to do more when she was there — nothing like an admiring pair of eyes for incentive.

He kept his mind as still as he could without the influence of the pills, making sure the jumble of words and thoughts in his head did not spill out onto his tongue and betray him. As the month of Bestialis wore on, he convinced them all that he was entirely sane.

Then it came, on the nox before the Ides, the prickling sensation that told him it was now, the sky was
falling, and he was needed elsewhere. ‘I'm going,' Ashiol told Macready in a firm voice. ‘I need to be there, and they need me. You know they do.' The sentinel regarded him suspiciously, but agreed.

 

The sky was alive with fire and ice and scratchlight and gleamspray and crackling bloodstars. Ashiol felt his heartbeat quicken as he saw the state it was in.
What did Velody sacrifice herself for if here we are, all over again?

The Lords were already fighting, and he watched them, trying to imagine himself as their Power and Majesty, giving orders, leading from the front. Would they let him now? Would they ever have let him?

He shaped himself into Lord form, bright and shimmering with animor, because there was a security in that. The sky wouldn't press down around him, crushing the breath out of his lungs, when he was a Creature Lord.

Except of course that it did. Shapes blazed out of the darkness, and Ashiol found himself twitching, hands clenching and unclenching. Where had his battle-strength gone? He was thinking too much.

He could hear Garnet's voice in the back of his head, mocking and jeering him, pointing out all his failings. A dark shadow swished over his head, and he almost obliterated it with a wash of animor before he realised it was Livilla. She slammed into a cloudweb, burning it from the inside out, surrounded by a cloud of sparrows. She and her new courtesa tore down the cloudweb in a matter of moments, and moved on to new meat.

The Court were doing just fine without him. He should be angry as hell about that, not relieved. Ashiol swayed, watching the scene. There was a beat in his head that wasn't his heartbeat. It was some kind of kicky
musical number and wasn't that exactly what he needed? Musical interludes inside his head.

The moon was swelling, almost full. Tomorrow would be the Ides.

‘Joining us, kitten?' carolled Poet, sweeping over his shoulder. ‘We've got devils to crush and eat. Tasty bones!'

Ashiol whipped around as he saw dust devils converging on Poet. He lashed out without thinking, his animor bursting out of his fingertips and smashing into the figures. They exploded into dust.

Poet swung around in surprise, laughing. ‘Sweetheart, I didn't know you cared.'

‘They weren't solid,' Ashiol muttered.

‘The solid ones haven't come back,' said Poet. ‘She saw to that.' He was looking at Ashiol carefully, as if he expected to see something or someone else behind his eyes. ‘You up for this?'

‘Always,' said Ashiol, grinding his teeth. He couldn't let it beat him, couldn't let the madness take him over. He had things to do.

The sky burst forth anew with burning light, and Ashiol pulled himself together. He went chimaera and found security in the dark, violent shape that only the Kings could wear.

Last one, you're the last one left. Velody left you here to do this alone.

Up here in the sky, he couldn't avoid thinking about Velody the way he could on the ground. Flying and fighting had once reminded him only of Garnet, of the good times and the bad. But these last few months with Velody, teaching her how to be a King, showing her how she could lead the Creature Court as Power and Majesty …

Wasted now, all wasted. Garnet, Heliora, Velody, all dead and gone.

It was down to Ashiol, and he couldn't do it. He didn't have the strength, or the will. He didn't even have the balls to run away. Better to let a deathbolt or the screelight take him out, give his animor to the rest of them.

Better to let it end.

Ashiol hovered in the middle of the firefight, no longer watching the flickering figures of the Lords and Court as they battled the sky. He released the chimaera form, becoming Lord again, pale and glowing. He extended his arms towards a hail of warlight, not moving from its path.

Let it take him.

A weight slammed into him from the side, and he fell helplessly, straight down. Self-preservation took over in the last instant and he used animor to cushion himself and his rescuer as they crashed into the roof garden of a private residence.

‘None of that, kitten,' Poet said, the words muffled against his chest. ‘Court rule. You stay out of the sky if you're feeling suicidal.'

‘You could quench me,' Ashiol said in a gasp.

‘Promises, promises.' Poet's eyes were serious behind his wire-rimmed spectacles. ‘Would you trust me with this city?'

‘Do you trust me?'

‘Mostly.'

Ashiol laughed at that, tilting back his aching neck. ‘Madness.'

‘That too.' Still resting against Ashiol's chest, Poet raised himself up on his elbows. ‘Come to the Vittorina
Royale tomorrow.' The light show of the skybattle above them threw colours and sparks against his hair as he looked down at Ashiol.

Ashiol tried to laugh again, but it turned into a dry cough. ‘You're inviting me to your musette?'