A Red Sun Also Rises

6. GUARDSMAN AND MAGICIAN

How much time had passed since I’d last awoken in a bed? I had no idea, but when I finally did so once again, it was not the pleasure it should have been, for my entire body ached abysmally. Every muscle felt bruised. My hands were blistered and I could hardly straighten my fingers. When I sat up and swung my legs to the floor, the pain was so excruciating I couldn’t help but moan in distress.

I had no memory of my return to the house—though I could vaguely recall a cab driver helping me out of a hansom—nor did I know how much time had passed since then. By the angle of the light slanting in through the gap in my curtains, I guessed it to be no small period.

Curtains! There’d been none before!

With another moan, I pushed myself upright, hobbled across the room, and pulled the draperies open. The square below was empty, the only movement being from the water of the tinkling fountain. I looked down at myself and found, to my surprise, that I was wearing blue-and-yellow-striped pyjamas. Then I turned and surveyed my bedchamber. The walls had been painted a very pale green. A dressing gown was hanging from a hook on the door. There was a wardrobe to my left, its doors open, showing it to be full of clothes. A pair of slippers poked out from beneath the end of my bed.

I squeezed my eyes shut and opened them again, bemused.

I could smell toast.

In a trice, I donned the gown, put on the slippers, shuffled out through the door, visited the bathroom—which I discovered had been fitted with a tub—then descended the ramp.

The house had been transformed. There were rugs on the floors, vases on shelves, incomprehensible artwork on the walls, cushions on the sofas, and all manner of homely knick-knacks around the place.

“Good gracious!” I exclaimed.

Clarissa came out of the kitchen. She was wrapped in the yellow robes of a magician. “You’re awake!”

“I don’t think so. Surely I’m dreaming!”

“You were gone for ages, came home in a daze, and slept for what must have been twenty-four hours. As you can see, we’ve been busy.”

“So I see! We?”

“Kata has been appointed as our housekeeper. Come through—there’s tea and toast.”

With my eyes wide and my jaw dangling, I followed her into what had become a very well-appointed kitchen. Kata, who was cleaning the work surfaces, turned and smiled. “Hello, Mr. Fleischer.”

“Kata! I’m happy to see you again!”

I gingerly lowered myself into a chair at the table. Clarissa placed a cutting board before me on which sat a tub of butter, a pot of jam, and a plate piled high with toasted bread. She added to it a teapot, covered with a knitted cosy, cups and saucers, a jug of milk, and a bowl of sugar.

She laughed at the expression on my face. “These are the products of a Dar’sayn meditation, Aiden.”

“How—how so?” I stammered.

“The Magicians use the fluid to enhance their connection to the other Yatsill. I drank the stuff during my first training session with Father Spreadflower Meadows at the Temple of Magicians.”

“Who? I thought you were to be taught by Mademoiselle Clattersmash.”

“I was, but her dizziness has developed into an illness of some sort, so Meadows, one of her acolytes, has taken over her duties. My session with him involved imbibing this Dar’sayn fluid. It put me into a peculiar state of mind. I became consciously joined to the Yatsill, and I learned a lot.”

“Joined? Telepathically?”

“Yes. I was right about the Working Class. It’s hard to believe, but they have only the most rudimentary intelligence. Everything we see them accomplishing—their efficiency, their craftsmanship, even their ability to communicate with language—is by virtue of the acumen transmitted to them by the Aristocrats.”

I chuckled. “Am I to take it, then, that you, being one of the latter, used the same mental channel to plant a knowledge of tea and toast into the species?”

She smiled and nodded. “In a manner of speaking. As I suspected, the Yatsill have excavated, mimicked, and, in some respects, adapted my memories, but they work on a broad canvas. I was able to communicate greater detail to them, especially where things that’ll make you and me more comfortable are concerned. Their natural enthusiasm did the rest. As a matter of fact, they’d already created a rough approximation of tea—our English obsession—but I was able to refine their recipe. Then they set out to replicate bread, reproducing its texture and flavour as closely as possible. And so forth.”

“On which subject—” I said, and tried to pick up a knife. My fingers wouldn’t cooperate. Clarissa took over, applied butter and jam to a piece of toast, and handed it to me. I took an eager bite and tasted something similar to strawberries but with a spicy edge.

“Of course, I didn’t confine myself to trivialities,” she continued.

I swallowed and exclaimed, “There’s nothing trivial about this!”

“True. But I also refined what they’d already picked up from me concerning mechanical engineering. In future sessions, I shall try to give them more. With their fervour and astounding proficiency, they’ll soon make Yatsillat a better approximation of London. We shall feel quite at home!”

“If we can get used to having four-legged neighbours.”

“I tried to find out more about this ‘being taken’ business, too,” Clarissa continued, “but in that was singularly unsuccessful. They block the entire subject from their own minds.”

I watched our housekeeper as she took oddly shaped and strangely coloured vegetables from a bag and started to peel them.

“Kata,” I said, “were you born on Ptallaya?”

“Yes, sir, and my father. But my mother was from a place called Futuna.”

“It’s an island some distance to the north and west of Koluwai,” Clarissa put in.

“Why was she sent here, Kata?” I asked

“To serve and to have children.”

“Are many of the Servants born here?”

“Most are, but newcomers appear in the Forest of Indistinct Murmurings each time the Eyes of the Saviour open. Like all of us, they serve until they are released.”

“Released? I’ve heard that term used once or twice before. What does it mean?”

“It is when we are sent to your world as a reward for our service.”

I looked at Clarissa and said, “Home!” then to Kata, “How do we get released?”

“The gods will decide,” she answered, and her tone signalled an unwillingness to discuss the matter any further.

It took six rounds of toast and two cups of tea to stop my stomach from grumbling. When I’d eaten my fill, we left the kitchen, crossed the black-and-white-tiled floor of the big square vestibule, and settled in our lounge. It was a bright and cheerful room, with tall windows in two of the walls.

I was telling Clarissa about my training.

“It was brutal. Over and over, I was ordered to assault a tree stump with a heavy sword.”

“You brought the weapon back with you,” she said. “It’s by the front door.”

“I have to carry it whenever I’m on duty. I’m positive the dashed thing is heavier than I am. I could barely stand up by the time Spearjab released me. There’s not a single part of me that doesn’t hurt.”

“Exercise has never been your forte, but I’m sure you’ll adapt to it.”

“I don’t want to! I never want that accursed blade in my hands again. It’s the one I saw in my vision, Clarissa. The one I shall use to murder Mademoiselle Clattersmash!”

“It is? How curious! But if you really saw the future, then you should regard the vision as an opportunity.”

“An opportunity to do what?”

“To change it.”

For the briefest of moments, my heart filled with hope. Why hadn’t I realised that before? Of course! All I had to do was avoid ever being alone with Mademoiselle Clattersmash!

The image of the Yatsill’s butchered corpse invaded my mind’s eye. It blurred and became the ragged carcass of Polly Nichols.

“It won’t work,” I whispered. “I have no control over my Mr. Hyde.”

For the first occasion in all the time I’d known her, I witnessed my friend lose her temper. Slapping her hands down onto the arms of her chair, she shouted, “Why the blazes do you persist with this absurd notion, Aiden? You are not Jack the Ripper! For crying out loud, don’t you think we all have a darkness within us? Don’t you think I’ve imagined wreaking a terrible revenge on Rupert Hufferton for what he did to me? He killed my father! Caused my mother to die of grief! He made a twisted ruin of me and threw me out of my home and into the streets. I was an outcast, and it was his fault. I haven’t just imagined murdering him—I’ve spent hour after hour daydreaming how I might bring him down, deprive him of his riches, destroy his reputation, take away everything he holds dear. I’ve even thought how satisfactory it would be to hold him prisoner and torture him! Horrible things! Horrible!”

I stared, open-mouthed, at her.

“It’s natural!” she insisted. “It’s perfectly normal to harbour such thoughts about a person who’s done you a terrible wrong!”

“But—” I began.

She halted me with a palm directed at my face. “No. Just listen. That Tanner girl and her father made of you a victim and gave you little choice but to leave Theaston Vale. Anyone would react with rage at that, but up until then your life had been a sheltered one, your character mild, your emotions unformed. You didn’t know how to articulate your fury, so you locked it deep inside yourself and refused to acknowledge it. Then, in London, when you stumbled upon the corpse of Polly Nichols, you experienced primal fear. The horror of that experience was also suppressed and got mixed up with your imprisoned wrath. It left your memory impaired and is causing you to doubt the integrity of your own character. You imagined that Jack, to commit those dreadful murders, must possess the same intensity of anger as you, and since you find it inconceivable that anyone but you could possibly possess it, you’ve concluded that you must be the Ripper. Bad logic!” She leaned forward until her goggles were close to my face. “You are not a murderer!”

My heart rejected her assertion, but intellectually she made perfect sense. I said, “How, then, do I overcome this delusion?”

“You are akin to a dormant volcano. If you erupt, it might be destructive. If, however, you can find a way to relieve the pressure in a more measured fashion, that will do much to calm your inner turmoil.”

I looked at my blistered hands. “Perhaps if I throw myself into this training?”

“Yes! Physical activity!”

“If I’m up to it. I’m already a wreck.”

“I’m sure a hot bath will help. You relax here while I light the fire and put some buckets of water to heat.”

While Clarissa fussed around me—and almost certainly to stop me dwelling on my fears—she talked about the estate she’d been given. It was comprised of the house we were in, a farm just outside the city, a manufacturing plant on the first level, and a block of dwellings on the second. The residents of the latter would be her workforce when she decided what her factory should produce.

“Some mechanical contrivance or other,” she said. “I have no idea how long we’re going to be here. It may be for the rest of our lives, so I might as well make myself useful.”

“Contrivance?”

“Hmm. I’ve been thinking about those long avenues. They’re ridiculously steep. It occurred to me that they might benefit from cable trams, like the ones they’ve been constructing in San Francisco.”

“Judging by the number of spills I saw on them earlier, I’d agree.”

My bath was soon ready. Among the new items in the bathroom, I found a cut-throat razor crafted at my companion’s behest by one of the city’s knife makers. After some work, I was finally able to liberate my chin from its outrageous beard. My hair, on the other hand, was almost down to my shoulders and I felt oddly disinclined to cut it. Having shaved, I thankfully gave myself up to the tub’s steaming water, its heat penetrating my sore muscles all the way to the bone.

Maybe Clarissa was right. I wasn’t the Whitechapel killer. But still I could feel that black something inside of me. I wanted to know it. I needed to be sure it hadn’t committed the acts I attributed to it. Cautiously, with my eyes closed, I mentally probed inward.

I sank into shadows.

Nothing. For a long time, nothing.

Then, as if hands were reaching into me to dredge the images from the depths of my mind, I saw the sword, the blood, and Polly Nichols, torn, gutted, dead. Her eyes were looking up into mine. The two deep lacerations in her throat worked like mouths. They chorused: “You think I might find happiness with a dusty old bookworm? A tall, thin dullard? A bundle of sticks bound together in last century’s clothes? Why, I would rather be alone for the rest of my life than be bonded to a wretched scarecrow like you!

She spat. Her blood splashed onto my boots.

I opened my eyes. My jaw was clenched. My fingers were white, gripping the sides of the bathtub.

“Damn you!” I hissed. “Damn you, Aiden Fleischer!”

After remaining in the water until it had cooled to tepid, I dried myself, returned to my room, and dressed in a loose shirt and fairly shapeless trousers.

As I was descending the ramp, there came a knock at the front door. Clarissa stepped into the vestibule behind me just as I opened the portal to find a cabbie on our doorstep.

“Come to take you to the barracks, chum,” he said.

I turned to my friend and slapped a hand to my forehead. “Already? Am I to get no respite, Clarissa?”

“Apparently not,” she replied.



° °



While I was occupied with my second painfully long training session, the Yatsill built their first printing press and opened a newspaper office. I knew nothing of this, and even had I been told wouldn’t have digested the information, for I didn’t possess the capacity to train and think at the same time. Such was the strain on my body that my brain simply shut down in order to avoid the pain. I remember only the flashes of the sword, the thuds of metal on wood, the clashes of metal on metal, and Colonel Spearjab’s voice insistently demanding that I do more, work harder, stop slacking, chop, guard, slice, riposte, dodge, thrust, fight fight fight!

Again, the cab ride home made no impression on me. So weary was I, the colonel could have launched me there by catapult and I wouldn’t have known it. My awareness ceased entirely at some point before I left Crooked Blue Tower Barracks and didn’t return until I was woken up by a loud voice below my window.

The absurdly titled New Yatsillat Trumpet had launched with a sensational headline.

“Read all about it! Read all about it! Parliamentarian murdered! Read all about it! First murder in New Yatsillat!”

I found Clarissa in the lounge with a newspaper in her hands.

“You were asleep when I left for the Temple of Magicians and still asleep when I got back,” she said. “You must have been exhausted. Did the newsboy wake you?”

“Yes. Murder?”

“Yarvis Thayne. He was found outside his home. It appears that someone attacked him with a sword and shattered his shell. His internal organs were spread across the pavement. A ghastly business.”

I staggered and caught at a chair to support myself. I croaked, “Were you here when I returned from training?”

“Yes. You were all done in and went straight to bed. You didn’t even eat. You must be famished. I’ll ring for Kata—she’ll prepare you some breakfast.”

She reached for a small handbell but hesitated when I cried out, “Wait! Stop! Tell me—tell me, was I—was I—?”

“Covered in blood? No, Aiden, you weren’t. Neither was your sword. I know what you’re thinking and you can get it out of your head immediately. You didn’t kill Yarvis Thayne.”

She rang the bell.

“But what if I left the house while you were out?” I said.

“Do you remember doing so?”

“No.”

“Your sword was in exactly the same place by the door when I returned and Kata said you hadn’t stirred. If you’d got up, dressed, taken your weapon, and left the house, don’t you think she’d have noticed? Even if she failed to see or hear you depart, she’d have realised the blade was missing. No—you were asleep the entire time, there’s no doubt about it.”

I flopped into a chair, weak with relief.

“Murdered,” I mumbled. “Murdered!”

“It puts us in an awkward position. He was a figurehead for those who oppose the changes our presence has brought about. No doubt he, like Father Yissil Froon, wanted me banished to the Shelf Lands.”

I grunted a response.

“If the Yatsill knew how to investigate a murder,” Clarissa went on, “which they probably don’t, they’d have to place us on their list of suspects.”

Kata entered and bobbed a curtsey. Clarissa asked her to brew a pot of tea and grill a couple of Kula’at—a species of fish that tasted remarkably similar to smoked mackerel. As our housekeeper headed for the kitchen, my companion said, “Yarvis Thayne’s death isn’t the only bad news. Mademoiselle Clattersmash’s ailment appears to be spreading. According to the Trumpet there are four hundred and fifty-six reported cases so far. Like murder, sickness is a new phenomenon for the Yatsill.” She rustled the newspaper. “This reports the two events as if they’re nothing more than intriguing novelties. You and I should take them rather more seriously.”

“If we are to investigate, where should we start?”

“I shall ask Yissil Froon whether he or his supporters have been in any way threatened. You, meanwhile, should try to educate Colonel Spearjab in matters of policing the city. Let’s make the City Guard live up to its name, else what’s it for? I’ve not even seen it using the watchtowers!”

“I know,” I replied. “I’ve asked Spearjab and my fellow trainees again and again what the city is defending itself against but all I receive by way of response is evasiveness and the phrase ‘the Saviour’s Eyes are not always upon us.’ The same as when I’ve asked about being ‘taken.’”

“I’ve experienced the same evasiveness from the Magicians. Apparently these are taboo subjects during the light of day—perhaps we’ll learn more when night finally arrives. Keep pressing the subject, Aiden. In the meantime, if you don’t mind, I’m going to turn one of our rooms into a laboratory. I want to take blood samples and see if I can get to the bottom of this outbreak.”



° °



Guardswoman Lily Wheelturner emitted a squeal of pain and staggered backward, hopping on three legs.

“By the Suns!” Colonel Momentous Spearjab shouted. “Good move, lad! Good move, I say! Ha ha! What!”

Time had passed. I’d lost count of how many training sessions I’d endured since the death of Yarvis Thayne—maybe twelve, perhaps fifteen. The two suns were now sinking toward the ocean.

I couldn’t by any stretch be regarded as proficient with the sword, but during that long period, I had at least acquired skills enough to defend myself against Wheelturner’s attack. She’d made a clumsy thrust at my stomach that I’d evaded by turning sideways, allowing her blade to skim across the tough padding around my torso while I used my momentum to spin and swing my weapon against one of her upper thighs.

I lowered my sword and flexed my shoulders, trying to work the stiffness out of them.

“No slacking!” Spearjab bellowed.

Wheelturner lunged forward and slashed down at my head. I sidestepped and, with unrestrained viciousness, smashed the pommel of my weapon into her mask, which broke in half and fell from her face.

“Disengage!” the colonel ordered.

Stepping away, I glared at my opponent’s four glittering eyes. I was angry. The rules of training stated that thrusts and cuts must be directed only at padding—thin but very robust material covering the torso, arms, and legs—but she’d repeatedly swiped at my unprotected head.

“Bravo, Fleischer!” Spearjab called, then, turning to the other guards, he added, “You see! Ha ha! That’s how it’s jolly well done! What!” He indicated that Wheelturner and I should get back in line, then waved another pair of trainees forward. They began to fight, their swords clanging.

The gruelling exercises, which had occupied almost all my waking hours, together with the heavier gravity and what proved to be a very nutritious diet, were having a visible effect on my physique. My bones were already sheathed in expanding and hardening muscle and the constant pain—for every session pushed my body to its limits—had given my face a sort of flinty grimness, quite unlike its former guilelessness.

My proposition—made some time ago—that the City Guard should man the watchtowers and patrol the streets had initially been greeted by the colonel with a response of “utterly unnecessary when the Saviour is looking upon us.” However, after I pointed out that Yarvis Thayne’s murder had occurred in the sight of the Saviour, and that the killer was still on the loose and might strike again, and that the protesters against change were growing in number and becoming rather more disruptive and unruly, he took the suggestion to Lord Brittleback. The prime minister immediately passed a mandate giving the City Guard powers and duties commensurate to those of London’s Metropolitan Police. The guardsmen now divided their time between patrols and training, with one exception—me. For some unfathomable reason, Colonel Spearjab was convinced that I was the resident expert in swordplay, and so kept me at Crooked Blue Tower Barracks to pass my so-called skills on to my fellows. His assumption was, of course, wholly erroneous. I knew no more of the sword than he did. The endless training had, though, bestowed upon me greater endurance and strength than I could have possibly imagined. I’d learned that the human body, when placed under terrible duress, possesses an astonishing capacity for adaptation.

The suns were by now at the five o’clock mark, with the thin crescent moons clustered close to them. It was impossible to calculate the length of time Clarissa and I had been on Ptallaya, though in Earthly terms, surely it must be measured in many months, perhaps even a year. The temperature had gradually increased and warm rains were now sweeping across the city at regular intervals.

I had not seen much of my companion. That she was very busy was obvious. In addition to her schooling with the Council of Magicians, she was also contributing many marvels to the Yatsills’ burgeoning new culture. Her manufacturing plant was constructing three-wheeled, tiller-steered, steam-driven autocarriages, many of which were already navigating the roads; big power houses were being built at the top of each avenue to pull the subsurface chains the trams would use to travel up and down the steep inclines; a more sophisticated sewerage system than the original was half-installed; and New Yatsillat’s factories and foundries were all being refitted with more efficient machinery. In addition, my friend had introduced a citywide postal system, which meant we now had an address: 3 Dissonance Square, Fourth Terrace, New Yatsillat.

Off to my right, Lily Wheelturner crumpled to the ground.

“Swords down!” Spearjab ordered.

We gathered around my erstwhile opponent who was sprawled motionless but for small tremors that shook her limbs.

Spearjab said, “I say! She looks to be in a bad way, what! Humph!”

I pushed one of my fellow guardsmen aside and crouched beside the stricken Yatsill.

“Lily, can you hear me?”

The fronds that fringed her mouth had turned a pale grey. They flopped loosely as her lips moved. “I can’t get up.”

“Does your head hurt? My apologies, I didn’t mean to strike you so hard.”

“You . . . didn’t. Not . . . not my head. I feel . . . I feel weak. Can’t . . . think straight. Perhaps . . . perhaps Phenadoor calls me.”

One of the other guardsmen said, “Are you chilled?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Cold.”

“I feel it, too,” he said. He turned to the colonel. “In fact, sir, I feel jolly rotten.”

“Aye, me as well,” another agreed.

Spearjab’s fingers waggled with agitation. “Anyone else?”

The rest of the Yatsill shook their heads and there were various murmurs of, “No,” “Not me, sir,” and “I feel fine.”

“Rightio,” the colonel said. “Wheelturner, Flapper, and Stretch—remain here. We’ll call a carriage and get you to a bally Magician. Humph! The rest of you are dismissed.”

With a last glance at the ailing guardswoman, I divested myself of the practice padding, saluted Colonel Spearjab, left the military compound, hailed a cab, and was driven home.

It was plain that Wheelturner and the other two had come down with the sickness that was now endemic across the city—thousands of Yatsill were suffering, Aristocrat and Working Class alike. Last time I’d seen Clarissa, she was close to a breakthrough in her analysis of blood samples. I hoped she’d now have something to report.

The cab dropped me at the corner of Dissonance Square.

My friend was outside Number Three, tinkering with the engine of our new autocarriage.

“Hello!” she said. “Have they let you out early?”

“Yes. Three more of the Yatsill have been taken ill. Has your laboratory borne fruit?”

“I’m afraid so.”

I strode over to her, noticing as I did so that three top-hatted Aristocrats were loitering nearby. They were glancing repeatedly at us and muttering among themselves. My arrival appeared to have disconcerted them somewhat. Perhaps they wanted a private word with my friend. They could wait until I went indoors to bathe.

“Afraid, Clarissa? Why afraid?”

She used a rag to wipe oil from her hands. “I’ve been working with Mademoiselle Clattersmash—she’s still weak but manages to get around—Father Spreadflower Meadows, and another Magician, Tendency Clutterfuss. They all specialise in medicine. They’ve examined the blood samples and have reached the same conclusion as I.”

“Which is what?”

“That the infection was brought here by you.”

“Me?”

“The illness is kichyomachyoma, Aiden. There is a microorganism in your blood, presumably injected by the spider that bit you on Koluwai. A counteragent of some sort—I’ve yet to identify it—has rendered you immune to its deleterious effects, but it’s still active and has somehow been communicated from you to the Yatsill, and now from Yatsill to Yatsill.”

I slumped against the autocarriage. “No!”

“The infection caused severe malarial symptoms in you, but in the Yatsill it manifests more like a mild flu but with one noticeable difference: the victims experience a debilitating ‘loosening’ of their telepathic connection to their fellows. This lessens the intelligence of the Workers and causes a sense of isolation in the Aristocrats, which, Clattersmash says, is by far the most disturbing aspect of the illness.”

“Have you found a cure?”

“Not yet, but the microorganism cannot survive in the blood of the islanders, and as I say, though active in yours, is rendered harmless to its host by an active counteragent. Those two lines of inquiry will, I hope, lead me to the solution.”

“I can’t believe I’ve been the cause of this,” I groaned.

“There’s every chance you’ll also provide the remedy.”

“Should I be quarantined?”

“It would be pointless. The infection is already too widespread.” She looked me up and down. “And speaking of health, Aiden, my goodness—what a transformation has been wrought in you! You’ve filled out so much we’ll have to ask the tailor to supply new clothes. You look a different man.”

“A man who can’t remember the last time he didn’t ache all over. How I miss my quiet little vicarage and my books!”

“Do you really mean that? Are you not feeling a certain fulfilment in the physical challenges you face every day?”

I snorted, as if she’d spoken an utter nonsense, but as a matter of fact, she was right. Physically—despite the disease I apparently carried—I’d never felt better in my life. I didn’t even notice the drag of Ptallaya’s gravity any more and was experiencing an unexpected exultation in our strange new existence. However, for whatever reason, I couldn’t quite bring myself to admit to this, so I replied, “Constitutionally, I’m more suited to holding a Shakespeare than a sword, but I’ve lost my position in life and am left with no options. I have no social standing. I’ve become naught but a common soldier. And now you tell me I’m a plague carrier!”

“Hardly that!” she objected.

“I’m going to take a bath,” I grumbled, and marched into the house, feeling inexplicably irritated that my friend should have identified that I, a scholar and clergyman, was starting to enjoy spending my every waking hour in mock combat.

I was halfway up the ramp to the upper rooms when I heard Clarissa give a loud cry of alarm. In an instant I was down again, across the vestibule, and back out through the door. My companion was standing against the autocarriage. Blood was streaming from her left shoulder. She was swinging a large spanner back and forth, and the three Aristocrats were crouched in front of her. They’d pulled swords from beneath their jackets.

“What in the Saviour’s name do you think you’re doing?” I yelled, striding toward them.

In answer, one of them threw himself at me, chopping downward with his blade. My training took over. Without thinking, I pivoted, and his weapon flashed past less than two inches from my face. In the same instant the tip of his sword clanged on the cobbles, I drew my own and, in doing so, slammed my forearm into his neck. His head snapped back, his top hat rolled away, and he stumbled from me, giving me the space to slash at him. His hand went flying, still clutching his weapon. With a scream of pain, he squatted and scuttled out of reach, clutching at his spurting stump.

A wave of revulsion hit me as I felt my inner demon squirm with sick delight, rejoicing at the damage I’d inflicted upon the attacker. I lowered my sword, stepped back, and stammered, “I’m—I’m sorry.” I was torn, as if two personalities were grappling for dominance of me. One would not hesitate to take a life in order to protect Clarissa. The other could barely lift the blade, so afraid was it that if I started killing I’d not be able to stop.

I teetered backward as one of the other Yatsill came at me, but as I did so, I saw the third creature take a swipe at Clarissa, who barely managed to block his blade with her spanner. My sword came up automatically and I parried my new opponent’s first swing, then—with my body rather than my mind in control—slashed at one of his legs, slicing it off beneath the first knee joint.

I leaped away from him to defend my companion.

The third Yatsill saw me coming and scurried backward into the square, giving himself more room to manoeuvre. I realised at once that this creature knew what he was doing. His stance spoke of someone well practised with the sword, though how he came by such skill was a mystery, for only the Working Class trained as guardsmen. Even before we engaged, this appreciation of his ability sent a thrill of fear through me. Crossing blades when you are well padded and your opponent is under strict instructions only to aim at that padding and not hit hard is one thing, but facing a foe who’s under no such compulsion is quite another. I’d seen for myself how readily these Ptallayan swords could sink into the hard wood of tree stumps. Wielded with strength, they could easily slice straight through a limb, as I’d already found.

Had I been alone, perhaps I would have succumbed to the insistent part of me that wanted to drop my weapon and take to my heels. As it was, I couldn’t possibly leave Clarissa, so my only option was to fight.

The Aristocrat stepped in and swung at me. Our blades met and, after a shimmering sizzle as they slid along each other’s length, were immediately whirling so fast that an unpractised eye would see nothing but flashes as they again and again reflected the light of the twin suns. The square echoed with clangs and clashes. My enemy was terrifyingly fast and vigorous, setting me on the defensive from the outset. Somehow, somewhere, he’d worked long and hard to acquire such skill. It had given him confidence and a technique that, by Yatsill standards, couldn’t be faulted. In addition, his only concern was to cause my demise, while I was distracted by the knowledge that his companions were nearby, nursing their wounds, and capable at any moment of attacking me from the rear or, worse, of plunging their swords into Clarissa. In addition, while he obviously held no compunction about murder, my fear of killing caused me to frequently miss opportunities to turn the attack on him.

That initial flurry of passes and parries ended with a clumsy lunge on my part. It was diverted with such ease that my opponent actually stepped back and made the clicking noise I knew to be a Yatsill laugh as I tottered sideways, only just regaining my footing.

The burst of rage this incited was immediately quelled by the realisation that he was trying to provoke me. I ducked and wheeled just as Clarissa shouted a warning and the three-legged Yatsill thrust from behind, aiming between my shoulder blades. I was lucky. As I sank down and twisted, he missed my face by a hair’s breadth, and the edge of my blade caught the flat of his with all the force of my spinning body, breaking his weapon clean in half. The point clattered away across the cobbles. I completed my gyration and raised my blade just in time to block my principal adversary. Now I settled into defending myself and did so without a single riposte, hoping the Aristocrat would exhaust himself. Dimly, under the chimes and scrapes of battle, I heard the two creatures behind me run from the square, probably under threat from Clarissa’s heavy spanner. That was the last thing, beyond my opponent, to impinge on my awareness, for now a sudden focus descended upon me—a sharpness of attention quite unlike anything I’d experienced before. It was as if time itself changed, so that every alteration in the angle of my adversary’s shoulders, every adjustment of his stance, could be examined and analysed in meticulous detail. Indeed, my mind appeared to encroach upon the immediate future so that my reflexes operated slightly ahead of his, allowing me to dodge every thrust, parry every sweep, evade every trick.

It felt as if many minutes were passing, although in truth they were mere seconds, but they were enough to drain his energy. Then I saw a slightly too careless thrust coming, deflected it with ease, stepped in, and used my left hand to punch him in the head. He staggered back in the direction I wanted—toward the fountain in the centre of the square.

The tables turned. I changed my tactic from defence to an all-out assault, putting into practice every technique I’d developed at Crooked Blue Tower Barracks. To earthly connoisseurs of swordplay—the Alfred Huttons, Egerton Castles, and Richard Burtons—no doubt I’d have appeared woefully clumsy. However, while I was no d’Artagnan, I began to feel myself a match for my opponent, and now forced him into retreat with a flurry of slashes and jabs that, I’m sure, from his perspective made my point seem everywhere at once. I struck the mask from his face, cracked the shell of his upper left arm, and scored a furrow across his trunk. “Stop!” he cried out, but I didn’t. Instead, I pressed my attack and demanded, “Who are you? Why did you try to murder my friend?”

“I don’t know!”

“Are you following orders?”

“Yes!”

“From whom?”

In an act of wild desperation, he exposed his entire torso to a thrust—which I didn’t take—and swung his weapon full force at my head. I raised my own at an angle to meet it, causing his sword to hiss along its length, showering sparks a good six inches above me, then stepped in and kicked him savagely between the legs—a barbarous move that was just as effective on a Yatsill as it was on a man. He doubled over, moaned, and dropped his weapon. I delivered an uppercut to his face, my fist squelching into the boneless flesh. He rocked backward, spraying blood into the air, tripped over the lip of the fountain, and went plunging into the water.

After kicking his sword out of reach, I waited for him to emerge. He struggled to his feet and swayed, weighed down by wet clothes and exhaustion. Blood streamed from his wounded arm.

“Answer me!” I snapped, levelling my blade at his chest. “Who ordered this attack?”

With difficulty, he clambered up onto the fountain’s low wall.

His four bead-like eyes met mine. Though they were expressionless, as was normal with the Yatsill, I detected a peculiar blankness in them, as though his mind wasn’t his own. He shook his head, then whipped up a hand, grabbed the tip of my sword, and propelled himself forward onto it. The metal sank through the vertical seam of his body shell and emerged from the middle of his back. His corpse thudded against me, causing me to tumble to the ground with it on top. My head cracked against the cobbles and everything blurred.

When the world came back into focus, I realised that Clarissa was dragging the dead creature off me.

“Are you all right?” I groaned. “Your shoulder is bleeding.”

“A small wound. Nothing I can’t fix with a poultice. And you, Aiden? Your hand is spouting blood and your cheek has been laid open. Is that the worst of it?”

“It is.” I pushed myself to my feet and looked at my right hand. At some point during the conflict I’d lost my little finger, though I hadn’t felt it. Now the pain began to throb abysmally.

I looked at the fallen Yatsill. “I couldn’t kill him.”

“You didn’t need to—he threw himself onto your blade.”

“But Clarissa, I had to kill him in order to protect you, but something in me prevented it. I was battling myself as much as I was battling him.”

“Good. You’ll have no more Jack the Ripper delusions, then!”

I gave a grunted agreement, but I was puzzled. My inner conflict had been far deeper than I could put into words and had felt somehow unnatural, as if my hesitancy hadn’t been wholly of my own volition.

I moaned as the pain in my hand grew worse, then shook my head to clear my muddled thoughts and asked, “Why, Clarissa? Why attack you?”

“I have no idea. Stay here—I’ll fetch my medical pack.”

My friend, as a Magician, had been trained to treat wounds using Ptallaya’s various herbs, many of which possessed remarkable healing properties. She now brought some from the house and applied them to my hand and lacerated cheek, fastening them against my skin with an adhesive leaf. Immediately, the pain was numbed.

“Your first duelling scar,” she murmured, “and your finger will quickly grow back.”

“Grow back?” I echoed. “How is that possible?”

“The miracle of Ptallaya. Remain here and rest. I’m going to report this atrocity. Shall I fetch you something to drink?”

I nodded wearily.

After treating her own wound and supplying me with a bottle of water from our kitchen, she mounted the autocarriage and drove off. I sat down and leaned against the wall of the fountain. The dead creature was sprawled nearby, still transfixed by my sword. Its blood seeped between the hard cobble-like shells, exactly as Mademoiselle Clattersmash’s had in my vision. All of a sudden, I was trembling violently, and, partly out of shock, partly at sheer relief at having survived, I began to giggle like a madman.



° °



I was still half-dazed and using the wall of the fountain for support when a convoy of steam-vehicles came panting into the square. Clarissa and Father Mordant Reverie disembarked from the first, Lord Upright Brittleback and Mr. Sepik from the second, and Colonel Momentous Spearjab and two guardsmen from the third. I straightened and greeted them all as they gathered around the corpse.

“I’d just delivered our sick chaps to the Magicians when I heard,” Spearjab said to me. “Harrumph! Are you injured?”

“Only slightly.”

“Humph! Humph! I understand the three Aristocrats were after Miss Stark. What!”

“Yes.”

Lord Brittleback exclaimed, “What a bloody mess!” He addressed Spearjab. “Are all your guardsmen accounted for, old fruit?”

“They are indeed, Prime Minister—harrumph!—and my troops are Working Class, not jolly old Aristocrats like the assailants!”

“Ah, yes, of course!” Brittleback responded. “I don’t understand it. The Yatsill are not violent. And the fact that Miss Stark is of the Aristocracy makes it even more incredible. Attacking one of our own? It’s bloody impossible!”

“Apparently not,” I put in.

Clarissa said, “Perhaps they were supporters of Yarvis Thayne and blame me for his murder.”

“They were acting on orders, I know that much,” I offered. “And if they supported Yarvis Thayne, then they must also support Yissil Froon.”

Father Mordant Reverie shook his head. “If you’re proposing that Yissil Froon might be behind this, I have to disagree in the strongest possible terms. He’s one of my most respected Magicians, and the eldest of us all. If anything, your suspicion suggests two hidden forces at work in the city, one supporting the dissonance and responsible for the murder of Thayne, the other against it and the source of the attack on Miss Stark.”

“Or a single force whose motives are rather more complex than we can currently guess,” Clarissa suggested.

“Is there any discontent among the Aristocrats?” I asked.

The prime minister gave an awkward shrug—a gesture that didn’t come easily to a Yatsill. “The Workers are restless, but not the Aristocracy.”

“There’s a problem with the Working Class?” Clarissa asked. “How so?”

“They are becoming increasingly uppity. The glassmakers have ceased work completely and I’ve received reports of widespread carelessness and disobedience. It’s bloody inconvenient and, to be perfectly frank, I’m not quite sure what to do about it. But that’s all beside the point.” He thought a moment, before addressing Spearjab again. “Colonel, I want you to instigate a search for the two surviving assassins.”

Spearjab saluted and said, “Right ho! Perhaps the dissonance—” he gestured at Clarissa “—could provide a description? Hey?”

My friend glanced at me and shook her head. The Yatsill all looked similar to us.

“Their masks were the same,” Clarissa said. “Plain and unadorned.”

“One of them lost his right hand,” I added, “and the other the lower part of one leg.”

“Ah!” Brittleback said. “Well done! That’ll teach ’em! Father Mordant, perhaps these individuals will visit a Magician for treatment.”

“I shall make enquiries, Prime Minister.”

Brittleback wriggled his fingers and flicked a hand toward the corpse. “Colonel, would you and your men dispose of this bloody thing, please? And I’d like a couple of your troops on permanent sentry duty outside Miss Stark’s house.”

Spearjab replied, “Humph! Yes! What! I say, Prime Minister, it occurs to me that Guardsman Fleischer has contributed enough to the training of the City Guard. In addition to placing two sentries in the square, I shall assign him permanently to Miss Stark. What! What!”

“Bloody good show!” Brittleback exclaimed.

Spearjab looked at me. “Never leave her side, is that understood, old thing?”

“Perfectly!” I replied, feeling as if a great weight had been lifted from me.

“Well then,” Brittleback announced, “we each have our part to play, but you, Colonel, will coordinate the investigation. I’d particularly like to know whether this has any connection with the murder of Yarvis Thayne.”

“Absolutely! Absolutely! I’ll place guards with Yissil Froon, too. He might be in danger. Danger, I say!”

“Good thinking, Colonel! Do it at once, please!”

So saying, the prime minister mounted his vehicle, was followed aboard by his tall, silent aide, and they departed. Spearjab and his two subordinates loaded the dead Yatsill onto their autocarriage and went rattling away.

Father Reverie looked up at the sky. Its pale yellow had deepened, taking on an orange hue. The shadows were lengthening. Drops of rain were beginning to fall. “Rest for as long as you need, Miss Stark,” he murmured without looking down, “then attend to your various projects. Whatever of them can be completed in short order, I recommend you get them done.” He lowered his head and turned his crow mask to me. “And you, Guardsman Fleischer, keep your sword sharp. The Eyes will soon be closing.”

He crossed to his vehicle, clambered into it, and without a backward glance, drove off.

“Oddly enough,” I said, “I feel much happier.”

Clarissa pushed me toward the house. “Because your training is finished?”

We stepped in and walked across the vestibule.

“Because we won’t be separated any more.”

As we entered the kitchen, I was overcome by an impulse. Grabbing my friend’s elbow, I turned her to face me then pulled her into a tight embrace. “I nearly lost you!” I whispered, pressing my face into the crook of her neck. “Clarissa, I nearly lost you!”

She put her arms around me. “But thanks to your own bravery, you didn’t.”

I held her, perhaps longer than our close friendship warranted, but I couldn’t let her go and didn’t care about decorum. The thought of being without her was unbearable—and it struck me that it wasn’t being alone on Ptallaya I feared, but the possibility I might be without Clarissa Stark anywhere.

I released her and stepped back, my hands still on her upper arms. She was beautiful.

“I’ve never asked you,” I said, looking at the dark goggles. “What colour are your eyes?”

“Brown.” To my surprise, she reddened slightly and quickly changed the subject. “You’re shaking like a leaf, Aiden—sit down. Are you still hungry? I’ll prepare us something to eat.”

I laughed. “Do you remember when you first arrived at Theaston Vale? It feels like such a long time ago, but you said you couldn’t enjoy my hospitality with the odour of the road upon you. In the same vein, I cannot sit here after a bloodthirsty battle while you cook for me, so, if you don’t mind, I’ll go and wash while you work your magic at the stove.”

A little later, while splashing water over my face, I paused and, with my eyes closed, revisited again that horrible moment when the Yatsill had thrown itself upon my sword. I re-experienced the grating vibration running up my arm as the blade slid through its shell, the hot blood spurting across my fingers, the weight of the body impacting against me, and the final exhalation rattling in my ear.

What had I felt? Did an internal Jack the Ripper relish the kill? Had a monster risen from my shadows?

No, there was no monster.

I’d been aware only of overwhelming shock and repulsion, but, again, there was also the strange notion that an exterior force had drawn the reaction out of me. Now I felt entirely differently. Grimly satisfied. I was glad the beast had died. Glad because he’d tried to execute Clarissa and I’d been responsible for his failure. Furthermore, having just killed, I knew for certain that it was for the first time. Whatever the darkness in me was, it certainly wasn’t the Ripper.

Clean, and somewhat calmer, I rejoined my friend.

“How’s your hand?” she asked.

“It doesn’t hurt at all.”

We ate a large meal, during which I asked, “Why don’t you manufacture a pistol? I’d feel happier if you were armed.”

“The Yatsill have forbidden it. They see no use for such weapons. Besides which, I’d hate to introduce firearms to this world. Our own has suffered enough because of them.”

“Will you at least carry a sword?”

“I’d be too clumsy with it. A dagger. I’ll carry a dagger.”

After our meal, we moved to the lounge where we sat and chatted. Outside, the rain had quickly developed into a heavy downpour. Clarissa stood and wandered over to one of the windows. Looking out, she observed, “There are never any clouds, yet it rains.”

“And it never rains but it pours—with ever greater frequency.”

“It’s late afternoon, Aiden. We have a very, very long night ahead of us. What a fool I’ve been!”

“Fool? Why?”

“Because it’s only just occurred to me to manufacture street lamps. Had I thought of it earlier, the whole city could’ve been illuminated by dusk. As it is, by the time I have them designed and the machinery to make them constructed, it’ll be too late.”

“The Yatsill must have managed well enough before our arrival,” I noted.

“Hmm. True. With burning brands in the Koluwaian fashion, I’d wager.”

She turned and stretched. Much time had passed since her immersion and subsequent transformation but it was obvious that she still delighted in her healthy limbs and straight back.

“I think I’ll turn in,” she said.

I gave a sound of agreement. I was tired. We retired to our respective rooms.



° °



Time on Ptallaya is more subjective than on Earth and disconcerting in its effects. One might work and sleep, work and sleep, work and sleep again, look at the suns, and find they’ve apparently not moved at all—or embark on what feels like a short task only to discover, upon its completion, that the two orbs have visibly shifted and shadows have lengthened.

During the final stretch of the long Ptallayan day—I’d guess a month in Earthly terms but could be utterly wrong—the weather continued to worsen. A hot breeze started to blow from the land across the bay as if the Eyes of the Saviour, as they neared the horizon, were dragging all the air they’d heated after them. The quality of light around us gradually deepened to a rusty orange. The rains came more frequently, fell harder, and lasted longer.

New Yatsillat suffered. An alteration in the climate hadn’t been taken into account when the city was built. Various of its materials rapidly deteriorated as they were first battered by the ferocious downpours, then swiftly dried by the torrid winds, then hit by rain again. Buildings leaked. Roofs collapsed. Walls cracked. The new sewerage pipes overflowed and burst. A section of the eighth terrace—as it happens, the district where Crooked Blue Tower Barracks had been located—collapsed and slid onto the ninth level, burying part of the fishing village.

To make matters worse, the Working Class approached the required repairs with a complete lack of diligence, performing their work in a very slapdash manner, taking far too long about it, or, increasingly, failing to do anything at all.

Amid this erosion, the flu-like sickness spread through the city like wildfire. Those of the Workers who came down with it reverted to a near animal state. They divested themselves of their garments, gathered at the seafront, and refused to leave. Kata told us, “They think they are dying and await the call of Phenadoor.”

The Aristocracy fared a little better. They became weak and suffered spells of dizziness and amnesia, but were at least able to function.

Meanwhile, Colonel Spearjab made no progress with his investigation. The two surviving assailants hadn’t been treated by any of the Magicians, or, it appeared, seen by anyone else.

Whatever had motivated the attempt on Clarissa’s life remained a mystery.

“There’ve been no further moves made against you,” I noted, “and none against Yissil Froon or anyone else. I wonder what our mysterious enemy is up to?”

We were walking home. Clarissa had taken a break from her ongoing research to join me for lunch at our local restaurant—a meal marred by bad service and which ended prematurely due to the establishment’s front window suddenly falling in, scattering shards of glass across the entire dining area.

Rather than responding to my musing, my friend, who’d been somewhat preoccupied throughout the meal, suddenly looked around as if only just realising where she was.

“The sky is red!” she murmured. “It’s late! I didn’t realise.”

“The suns are setting,” I said. “You’ve been holed away in that laboratory of yours for ages!”

A strong gust of wind whistled through the eaves of the buildings to either side of us. We’d opted to walk in the middle of the street in order to avoid falling roof tiles. There was little traffic—the city was becoming ever quieter and less active.

“Ages? Really? It doesn’t feel like it.”

“You’ve been busy, that’s why. I, on the other hand, have had very little to do and the time has dragged awfully.”

She didn’t answer.

I looked at her. “Clarissa?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you hear me? What’s wrong? You hardly said a word during lunch.”

She sighed and frowned. “I’m sorry, Aiden. I’m finding it almost impossible to think straight. I appear to have affixed on a memory and it’s replaying over and over, like an annoying tune that lodges itself in one’s head.”

“What memory?”

“Of the blueprints that Sir Philip Hufferton and I drew up when I was a youngster. I find myself dwelling on their every detail, their every line, and I can’t stop myself. I have no idea why.”

“Blueprints for what?”

“Extravagant war machines. Impractical, childish things. Why in Heaven’s name are they playing on my mind so?”

I shrugged. “I remember you mentioning them once. What caused you to recall them in the first place?”

“That’s the thing of it—nothing! They simply popped into my thoughts out of nowhere, and now they won’t go away!”

We stepped over the rubble of a fallen chimney.

“You’ve been working too hard,” I suggested.

“I’ll keep going until I drop, if necessary. Kichyomachyoma may not be fatal to the Yatsill but it’s debilitating enough to bring the city to a standstill.” She put a hand to her head. “I just wish my brain would cooperate with me.”

We arrived home and Clarissa resumed work in her laboratory with Mademoiselle Crockery Clattersmash, Father Spreadflower Meadows, and Father Tendency Clutterfuss. These three had been a constant presence in the house for no small amount of time now and I was beginning to feel a sense of camaraderie with them—even with Clattersmash, who’d so abruptly denied me my priesthood after the Ritual of Immersion. It was an affection I knew Clarissa felt more intensely—even to the point of real friendship—which, I suppose, was to be expected, as she was more or less constantly in their presence, working to the same end.

A little while after our return, there came knocking at our front door. I put aside the New Yatsillat Trumpet, left the lounge, and went to answer the summons. The wind had died and now yet another of the rainstorms was battering the city. The Koluwaian woman standing on our doorstep was drenched, with water streaming from her lank hair.

“I have a message from Father Mordant Reverie,” she said. “He would like you and Miss Stark to attend him at the Temple of Magicians immediately. The matter is urgent.”

Before I could invite her in to dry off, the Servant turned and disappeared into the monsoon-like downpour.

I closed the door and went to the laboratory. Clarissa and her three colleagues were bent over the paraphernalia of chemical research, each engrossed. I cleared my throat to attract her attention.

“What is it, Aiden?” she asked in an abstracted tone.

“Father Reverie wants to see us.”

She straightened and clicked her tongue impatiently. “I need to finish this analysis. I’m finding it difficult enough to concentrate as it is—I really don’t need to be interrupted. Confound it! Why is my mind obsessing so?” She thudded the base of her hand against her forehead. “It’s getting worse!”

“He wants us at the temple right now, Clarissa. Perhaps the distraction will do you good.”

She gave another inarticulate expression of exasperation and turned to Clattersmash. “Do you feel strong enough to continue for a little while, Mademoiselle? I notice you’re trembling.”

The Yatsill nodded. “I feel weak but I’ll carry on, my dear. Do you mind if I sleep in one of your rooms should I require respite?”

“Not at all. I’ll return as soon as I can.”

We took our leave of the Magicians and exited the house. While I held an umbrella over Clarissa, she unfurled and clipped down our autocarriage’s protective leather hood. We boarded the vehicle and set off with the torrent thundering so noisily on the skin roof we could barely converse. When we reached the main avenue, we found that it was practically a waterfall, so we abandoned the machine and jumped onto one of the new trams instead. It took us up to the third terrace with water sloshing noisily past its wheels. When the conveyance stopped we disembarked, and almost the instant we stepped into the flood, the rain ceased.

To our left—looking out over the rooftops—the choppy sea sparkled under the flushed, inexplicably cloud-free sky. The suns were already, for the most part, below the horizon, with just the molten smears of their apexes showing. Around us, the shadows were dense and purplish.

A short walk brought us to the temple. We mounted the steps and entered. My companion informed a Magician of our appointment. The Yatsill went away and returned a few moments later with Father Mordant Reverie, who said, “I must take you both to one of New Yatsillat’s highest towers that the Saviour’s Eyes may look upon you before they close.”

He turned us around and steered us back out, guiding us to an autocarriage parked nearby. We boarded it, he took the tiller, and moments later we were chugging back toward the avenue.

“Oh!” Clarissa suddenly cried out. She massaged her temples. “It’s stopped!”

“The blueprints?” I asked.

“At last!” she breathed. “I thought I was going insane! But—” She put her fingers to the bump above her right eyebrow.

Father Reverie turned his mask to her. “You feel your thoughts are being muffled, perhaps, Miss Stark?”

“Yes! As if my mind is being wrapped by a blanket.”

I looked at her, shocked. “Please! You’re not coming down with kichyomachyoma?”

“No, Aiden. This isn’t the sickness. It’s something else—a sort of suppression—and I sense it descending upon the whole city.”

Reverie clicked the fingers of his free hand together and said, “The Magicians are sequestered in the temples and are now extending the Saviour’s protection over the city. That is what you feel.”

There was less water cascading down the avenue now, and the autocarriage navigated the slope with minimal difficulty. The Magician drove us to the top level and stopped at a watchtower next to a paper mill.

“Come,” he said, and led us inside and up a long spiralling ramp. It eventually ended in a circular room with round widows set closely together in its walls. A huge lens stood before one of them, mounted on an ornate wheeled brass frame.

From this height, a tremendous vista was open to us: the flame-coloured ocean with the blazing smudges at its horizon; the monumental cliffs at the outer edges of the bay; the broad terraces encrusted with buildings; the mountain range to the north; and a vast expanse of hills and plains beneath a sky that, landward, had now turned the deepest of crimsons and in which two of the moons were set close together.

Reverie pulled the lens to one of the seaward-facing windows. We moved to stand beside him and watched in silent contemplation as the two yellow suns slowly slipped out of sight, leaving a band of orange light over the sea.

The long day had finally ended.

He adjusted the glass and said, “Look.”

Peering through it, we saw that he’d focused the apparatus on the large crowd of kichyomachyoma-infected Working Class who stood at the seashore. One by one, they were slipping into the water, swimming out, and disappearing under the surface.

“Phenadoor embraces them,” he said. “They go to a better world.” He sighed. “As one of the Aristocrats, such rapture will never be mine. My fate lies elsewhere. I, and all the other Aristocrats, will eventually be taken.”

“By what?” Clarissa asked.

I expected her question to be answered with the infuriating evasiveness we’d become accustomed to. Instead, Reverie wheeled the lens to the other side of the room and gestured for us to join him there.

Puzzled, we did so and looked out over the rolling landscape. Three of the mammoth Yarkeen creatures were floating in the far distance. For what I guessed to be five minutes, nothing happened and the magician remained silent. Then he said, “That is what will dictate my future,” and pointed.

On the horizon, the tip of a burning orb suddenly rose into view.

I watched, dumbfounded.

It was a third sun, and it was gigantic—at least ten times larger than Earth’s.

It was blood red.



° °