The Year of Our War (8 page)

Genya discovered the flask of whiskey on the table. She plucked out the cork, threw her head back and glugged noisily.

“Sister?” I said. Her green eyes blazed. “Come down to the stables tomorrow. I’ll find a horse for you. Leave the fort to Vireo; I’ll let you go home.” I saw her pause, eyes narrowed. “No tricks, I promise. I’m sorry.”

Ata practically slavered with the desire to know why I was so contrite.

Genya nodded. She unfastened the top button of a thin shirt and pulled out the Lowespass seal, on a dirty string. She bit through the string neatly, and dropped the fat gold ring in Vireo’s outstretched hand.

Vireo clutched it, her face glowing with pleasure. After a while Tawny gave her a bear squeeze hug.

“Good horse?” asked Genya, peering up through fine fronds of black hair.

“Yes. And now I need to rest, my sister. We’ve been awake all night.”

“What!” Staniel spluttered. “You were asleep for hours.”

“I was awake all night. Just somewhere else.” I pushed my chair back, and was nearly—nearly!—quick enough to catch Genya’s hand.

She jumped from tabletop to windowsill, making Mist swear. She fastened her fists in the ivy growing outside, swung herself over the edge and swarmed effortlessly down the wall like a squirrel. At the foot she halted, wreathed in foliage. The courtyard was still so she ducked free, sprinted across, and disappeared under a portcullis at the far end.

She trailed a moon shadow rapidly over the tiles of the Inner Ward; muscled, bone-thin, and athletic. That’s not just the thin of women who aren’t fat; there’s something essential in her, an animal’s constant hunger. Genya is sex on a stick to me, just the stick to everybody else.

T
he stables of Lowespass Fortress were two long, low buildings. The walkway between them was cobbled and slimy, with a gutter running down the center into which my boots kept sliding. By the time I reached the stable entrance, a square black mouth in the dark hours before dawn, I was covered in mud and horse shit, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it was human shit as well, since the latrines in the fortress are a hundred years out of date and have never worked properly.

The walls were whitewashed stone, roofed with slate. Behind the barn stood Lowespass’ Outer Ward, its thick wall topped by a covered passageway. I have spent hours up there, walking along logs painted with pitch and sand to prevent them becoming slippery, looking out over the scenery.

I leaned against the doorpost and waited for Genya’s arrival.

Each room of the fortress held a handful of men, and many were injured, but the only sound came from behind me, where tethered beasts huffed and coughed. Some sensed my presence and whinnied uneasily, stamping on the strewn floor. A straw fluttered down from the hayracks attached to the stable beams; it brushed my nose. I flicked it away and found that a few more straws had landed in my hair. I removed them swiftly, as my hair is one of my best features.

Soon I will be at the Castle, and I couldn’t wait for all the comforts like hot water, clean clothes, customized drugs, my wife. A straw twirled down from the stable. The sky was cut by a long horizontal streak of purple. I watched it turn from dark blue, through violet to wine-red, and it healed as the sun rose, to a pencil line, leaving the sky a pale blue and the walls of the stable clear white.

I waited for Genya. I wanted Genya desperately and I was tormented by the thought I might never see her again. She could lose herself in the mountains, and even if I waited in Scree in a snowstorm she might not come back to the Filigree Spider. Even if I tracked her, above the snowline and in the corries—and I am a good tracker—I might never catch her.

What makes me great also isolates me. Had I been pure Rhydanne, and single, Genya would have married me. Then with the Emperor’s consent she would be made part of the immortal Castle Circle. But no, my father was Awian, so with their wings, elongated to a thin Rhydanne build, I can fly, and Genya looks upon me as a freak. In Rhydanne culture early marriages are arranged and the husbands help to raise their children, while the narrow-waisted women recover from the trauma and regain their hunting speed. A newborn Rhydanne is put on the floor—he will be able to stand up. By the end of the day he will walk, and by the end of the week he will be running around uncontrollably.

I fuck my mind up for a little longer with an old, familiar agony: how the Awian trader, rapist, my father, could have managed to catch a Rhydanne girl.

Time does not heal all ills. Some actions can only be seen clearly and understood wholly when viewed through the glass of time. Sick, muddled memories don’t fade away but weigh ever more heavily on us as time progresses. They are actions that nobody witnessed, and which I desperately need to confess, but to do so would ruin me. Acts which reappear in nightmares, and that’s my punishment.

A
stable hand, yawning, disturbed me from my memories. He wore a bright red suede waistcoat slit at the back for his wings. He scuttled by, looked startled when he recognized me, but managed a greeting: “Good morning, Messenger.”

“It looks like a good morning for flying,” I said. He looked to the meter-long primary feathers at my back. My wings were crossed under my coat, although the bumps at my waist showed the sinewy limbs. The servant had never seen anything like it. He nodded cautiously toward the doorway. “Want your racehorse ready?”

“No. I want the black mare I rode in yesterday. The charger with the chevronels on its chafron.”

“That’s Merganser’s horse. From Rachis. Called Charabia.”

“Bring her out and make sure she has excellent tack.”

“Your wish, Comet.”

“I don’t care about ornament, but she has to go some distance, so make it sturdy. And let me alone now.” Let me alone to sulk. Still I waited for Genya, scanning the rooftops where she often climbed, wishing for a glacier in the Outer Ward and icicles on the parapets. I waited, I waited, and flinched when a rustle came from just above me. I waited—a giggle—I looked up, and behind the bars of the hayrack were a pair of eyes, vertical pupils, gold as they reflected the sun. Genya was lying full-length in the hayrack. She plucked another straw from her bed and dropped it down on me, giggled, pushing long fingers through the slats. Quickly I grasped a beam and pulled myself up, hoping to lie there with her, but when I climbed in and floundered in the straw she jumped lightly down and paced, tiptoe swift between the stalls, speaking to the chargers.

“Are you good? No, I don’t think so. Bad horse, good horse? What about you?” Her body comprised of coat hangers, hanging from thin straight shoulders like her face hung from cheekbones. Paper-white and angular, an origami face, pencil-lead shadowed with lack of sleep.

“My lady! My lady!” I fluttered down. I threw myself at her feet, seized her long, long legs and buried my face in the lace-ups of her boots. She tried to kick me in the nose. I pulled at her leggings but she remained upright with vicious poise.

“I’m sorry about what happened,” I begged. “Please forgive me. I want to help you.”

She nipped my shoulder violently, the long nails cutting in. I imagined her running and bit my tongue. “Speak Scree!” she demanded. “I speak Awian…not very good.” That would make a mess of my plea, as in Scree there were no words for “sorry” or “forgive.” Never trust a language that has no future tense and twenty words for “drunk.”

“You’re safe with me now. What we did was wrong—the Awians would call it wrong anyway. I regret it, and I want to repay you, Genya. Come out to the yard; I help you go back to the mountains.”

“All the horses are spoilt beasts; they bite!”

“I’ve found one that doesn’t seem to mind being ridden by a Rhydanne.”

“Ah—fuck that as well, did you?”

Don’t make this hard for me. It’s difficult being near you without you making me angry. The cursorial girl was close enough for me to grab, or I could draw my knife and force her to the wall. I was greatly tempted to take her. Damn it, who’d know or care? “I’ve seen you catch mice. Don’t tempt me to play with you the same way.”

She tossed her hair and stalked out of the stables, ducking under the hayracks.

Staniel’s men were gathering in the courtyard and all around was the clink of tack, men fitting saddle straps into buckles, rolling up sleeping bags, rolling fags and chewing on dripping bacon sandwiches.

I saw one sword being examined, but most had left their cleaned weapons in their packs. They were tying little drums, painted gold, amethyst, and fuel-blue, to their saddles, plumes and Insect antennae in their hair. The lancers had rolled their colorful caparisons into long bundles and were using them as cushions. Lances had been transformed into pennants, ivory and light blue, embroidered with eagles, with white quills, towers, an appliqué dog with pearl eyes, and a sleeping falcon with florid feathers.

A lame man leaned on his lance; his friends heaved him into the saddle, his hair still streaked with the blue dye that the most flamboyant wear to fight. A few men chuckled covertly with pleasure at returning to Awia, but most were quiet, bearing Staniel’s orders in mind. The black martlet volant was my wife’s flag, and I recognized the thickset man who bore it as the warden of Wrought manor, but I couldn’t speak to him with Genya treading like a puma at my side.

Genya poked her foot into a stirrup and was astride the horse before it knew what was happening. It kicked, it bucked, and walked round in a little circle, trying to throw her over its head. She clung on to two handfuls of black mane, her forearms like twists of rope, her eyes dancing. The Awian soldiers stopped their preparations and watched, eyes wide and drop-jawed.

I mimicked them. “Do you want to catch all the flies in Lowespass? Mind your own sodding business!” Genya brought Charabia under control by the simple means of letting it become so knackered it gave up trying to throw her.

“Promise not to eat the horse, Genya…Well, at least make sure you get back to Darkling first. Here’s my compass.”

I showed her the silver device and tried to explain but she just said, “Pretty!” and shook it to keep the painted disc revolving. I removed it from her talons.

“Keep the sunset at your back,” I said. “Those hills become the mountains so if you keep going up, you find the trade road which takes you to Scree pueblo.”

Genya grinned maniacally. I took the knife from my boot and passed it to her. If I can’t give her my compass she might better understand a knife. “You could need this, for Insects or thieves. Remember, Insects are too hard to bite. Stab their heads.”

“Yes, Shira.”

I wanted to ask for a kiss but kissing isn’t in Genya’s repertoire. Instead I took her hand, her pale skin cold to the touch, seeing the even white half-moons on her pointed nails. I will always be able to remember the chill ghost of her skin like marble, and the contrast between it and my wife’s warm feathers always makes me feel queasy. I thought, they’re too different and yet I want them both, because I am a bit of both and as good as neither. “All you need is a decent patch of snow to lie in and be as right as Rayne,” I told her.

The gates opened, and Genya urged her unwilling horse forward and through them at a canter. She never looked back, but I knew she was smiling.

S
ome things are not and can never be yours, no matter how deeply or for how long you know them. I knew I should allow Genya to leave because my lust for her was destructive—although I’ve never really understood what’s wrong with wanting destructive things.

I paid the stable hand generously and went to my room, thinking. In order to be at peace you have to let go of the thing you cherish; you can’t move on if you cling to it and even immortals have to develop. Lust for the Rhydanne girl had been holding me back, even as far as the time when I lived like her. I knew it was much better to let her go. So am I at peace? Am I fuck. I cooked up a heavy dose of cat and injected it, enough to Shift.

I
n the Shift, Keziah was hiding in the Aureate with a hacksaw. We were standing in the shadow of a thick, reflective wall, which stretched up as far as I could see. I was handsome if rawboned, in black and white, which the wall threw back as different shades of yellow. Keziah never wore clothes. He was a man-sized lizard who walked on strong back legs, stunted forearms hanging down in front. His long snout was full of pointed teeth. The scaly plates of his skin were mottled moss-green and gray. I was desperately trying signs and whispers, to make Keziah come back to his pub.

I had started in Epsilon, looking for Dunlin Rachiswater where I left him in the Bullock’s Bollocks bar. He was no longer there, and I heard from the punters that Felicitia had left as well. No one could tell me where they had gone, or why. I then tried my palace at Sliverkey, but it was uninhabited and untidy, as usual. Searching for Keziah, in order to ask him, had brought me to the Aureate.

Keziah was of the opinion that fly-by-night bar staff like Felicitia were worthless drifters. He was better off without them, and Awians in general regardless of how royal. “They split at daybreak, dude; who knows where they are? Join me and we’ll both be rich.”

“This is the Tine’s quarter. If they catch us they’ll kill us!”

“It’s made of solid gold,” Keziah hissed. He turned to see me since his eyes were at the sides of his head.

“I know that!”

“So if we cut a piece out we’d—”

“Cut it! Are you mad?”

“Ssh! We’d never have to work again.”

“The pub—”

“Screw the pub; dude, look at this…” He gestured for me to crouch down and pointed at two jagged saw-marks that ran into the base of the gold wall, carving out a triangular ingot. The cut surfaces were bright, the wedge connected to the wall by half a centimeter thickness at its apex. “Nearly rich,” whispered Keziah.

“Greedy bastard.” I watched as the hacksaw bit into the wall. He grasped the handle with his hind leg and sawed rapidly. The slice of gold loosened and fell. Keziah caught it in a foreclaw and wrapped it in a piece of cloth. “Let’s go.” he said. We crept to the edge of the wall, and peered round. A group of big Tine were standing there calmly watching us.

Tattoos spotted their pale blue skin, scarred and tanned to indigo. Each Tine had a flat black shell on his back, pocked with designs and sprouting loops of gold wire. The most immense one had stubby horns grafted on his forehead. Gnarly claws curled into fists. A dozen pairs of pupil-less eyes blinked. A forest of needle-teeth appeared as they all slowly smiled.

Faster reactions than Keziah, I turned and ran. I looked back from the gold cobbled road to see him drop to a fighting stance. He roared.

“Come on!” I yelled.

“Run,” he snarled, showing his terrible teeth. “You coward!”

The Tine clustered round him, the smallest taller than him, muscles crawling under their blue skin. Keziah kicked the nearest one. His claw opened its stomach. Pink guts spilled out over its belt. Another Tine finished it off and began chewing on its backside.

Keziah lashed out with his tail. He struck the cannibal across the back of the neck, killing it instantly. It slumped over its meal. The lizard evaded another carnivore, bit at it, driving it back. He kicked again, his talon sinking into a belly, where it was caught. Two Tine dashed forward and seized his leg. He teetered and fell over.

I saw the Tine simply pick Keziah up, clawed hands all over him, and twist him apart. Those at his head twisted left. His legs twisted right. There was a series of sounds like strings snapping, then I heard the wet crack as his spine fractured. Tine clamped their teeth in his scaly tail; another began to pick long fangs from his gums. He screamed and thrashed. Blue fingers pushed into his eye sockets, trying to fish one out. His tongue was ripped and Tine fought among themselves for it. They plucked his fingers with gristly sounds and chewed them like twigs.

A Tine took a length of intestine, and squeezed out the contents. Murky slime pattered onto the cobbles. He put one end of the gut to his lips and blew it full of air. He twisted it a few times, held it up. A balloon dog. Tine fell over each other laughing.

Helpless, I kept running; the monsters saw my movement and followed. The gold path shook with their footfalls. They smelled of rotting meat. They couldn’t gain ground. They couldn’t catch a Rhydanne as shit scared as I was. But they wouldn’t give up the chase.

I pounded, slipped, and jumped down the gold road. The road narrowed, came to an abrupt bend. This was the knee. Holy buildings with stepped gable ends crowded close on every side. Red gold, white gold. Stench of burned flesh in the air. Smell of lizard blood and excrement. I set off down the shin of their city.

Shin, calf, the Ankle Plaza. A rounded edifice stood in the center, full of Tine. They had blue loincloths and thongs round their legs. Their custom was to drop molten gold onto their legs and feet, which set in their skin. It seemed as if they had grown from the golden road, gradually changing to blue. I skidded to a halt in front of them. The Tine chasing me piled in behind. They reached out with transplanted fingers. They made a stinking wall of muscle.

I put a hand to my sword hilt and found that it had gone. I tried to spread my wings but was rooted to the spot. The Tine tensed to rush me.

A skein of voices on my left—“Shira!” I looked to where a woman was standing—a blond woman, wrapped in a cloak. There had been no girl there a second ago.

The Tine didn’t like her one bit. Forgetting me, they closed in on her and I screamed because I thought they would rip her apart. She threw back the cloak; underneath she was completely naked, and very lovely. The Tine sniggered and licked their chops. As the cloth hit the cobbles her body followed it, disintegrating, flowing down and spreading like the twisted trunk of a tree, then like its roots, running out in thick strands over the floor. The broken facade of her face was last to go. And then silence.

Some Tine went down on one knee. Some backed off. I just kept screaming. Her body became a thick cable of flesh, made from smaller threads. It snaked across the plaza and over to a gold drain covering, where she reassembled into a beautiful girl, and beckoned to me. She raised the grating, although Tawny himself couldn’t have budged it, and slipped through.

The Tine began to recover, and looked around for me. I pelted across and followed her down the drain, grazing my wings as I eased through. I retched at the stink.

We were in darkness. Blue arms wedged through the hole and waved about, but they couldn’t grab us. A scimitar was poked down. The Tine began to howl. The girl took my arm and we walked a little way along the edge of a deep gold trough, running with blood and dirty water, a few fragments of splintered bone carried along, organs and knots of hair and Insect shells; some other pieces I was glad I couldn’t recognize.

“This is the main drain,” said the girl sweetly. “I advise you not to take a swim.”

“What? Who? Who are you?” I panted.

“This is just a bad dream, Jant,” she said.

“How do you know my fucking name?” I tried to shake free of her grasp; it was impossible.

“You have to go back to the Castle and forget all this,” she said. She spoke Awian perfectly. She had a very mellow voice, very high pitched, and as if lots of voices were speaking together. A couple of gaps appeared in her cheek; with a shifting of flesh they closed again and I suddenly saw that she wasn’t solid at all. I peered closer and recoiled with disgust. She was made up of thousands of long, thin worms. Knotted together and constantly moving, they gave the impression of skin. She smiled, or rather, the worms that were her lips parted briefly, and I saw the worms that were her teeth.

“It’s a shame to see such a seasoned traveler so lost,” she said.

“Who are you?” I repeated, terrified. I was stuck between this creature and the blood-filled canal. Her faint smile reappeared, as if she had no need of a name, and I was being stupid. She must have come from a very distant place, to be so alien. “If you think I’m strange,” she said, “you should see the rest of the court.” She put her hand through her chest and scratched the back of her head.

“Court? What court? The only court is the Castle!”

“The Royal Court is concerned. I think the Tine are not very happy with you,” she said, understanding in a studiedly feminine way. Her calm voice stroked me. If she was invisible I’d be in love. “Never come back to the Aureate. Never talk to the Saurian.”

“Keziah’s dead,” I told her. Another faint smile.

I recovered what few shreds of courtesy I could. “Thank you…Thank you for saving my life. Maybe in the future I may have the honor of performing the same service for you, my lady. In the meantime, is there anything I can do to repay you, singular or plural?”

“You must go home and stay there.”

“Apart from that!”

“How about a kiss?” she said, sticking out a tongue which unwound into a cluster of worms, and waved at me. The end of the tassel suddenly bloomed red, as all the worms opened their tiny mouths, and stuck their tongues out. I backed away.

The girl laughed and dissolved, writhing down as before and separating out into individual creatures, which squirmed between the cobbles and, clump by clump, plopped into the drain, where they swam away upstream. The last of them merged together to form a floating disembodied arm, which cheerfully waved farewell. I returned the gesture, wondering if she could see me.

I then sat down by the gory canal, and waited to be pulled back. I would have a hangover on my flight to the Castle. When perfectly sober, anticipating a hangover is a bitch. I hated the thought of my useless body lying on the chamber floor, back in cold Lowespass, where the Insects swarmed.