Blightcross: A Novel (23 page)

They left the museum, and much to Alim's annoyance, Sevari led him into the refinery. Only this time, he veered from the main area into a quieter, more secure section.

“Sir, I do have work to do. I have tightened the area around which Capra and her friend will be found.”

“You want to get back out there, eh? Well, I won't keep you long. You know I use the
vihs
in my research laboratories in the clock tower. But I also employ
vihs
in the refining process.”

They stopped at a large iron door fitted with a massive combination lock. Sevari took a key from his belt, turned it, then began to spin the rings. “The problem is that the people beyond this door believe the workers are jealous and are killing anyone who might have the power, or even once had it, or is related to someone who uses it openly.”

Sevari opened the door, and beyond was a long chamber. Pipes ran through the entire section, and all along each wall stood person-sized alcoves. Around either side of each alcove was a knot of smaller pipe that joined with the larger ones.

Alim made a few tentative steps, like a pack animal unsure of the ground. His breath caught in his lungs when he saw the people standing in each alcove. Motionless, blank faces and a strange glow about them, like nighttime fog curling around a lantern.

“What have you done?”

“Maximized production. With the sad state of metallurgy and the sciences, could I have really brought this facility into the world-leading producer of fuel without a little magic?”

“A little magic? You must have two-hundred of them locked in there. Are they being harmed?”

Sevari rolled his eyes and waved to his machines. “They are on for just twelve hours each shift. They are well taken care of. Now, about this tension in my refinery...”

Alim stepped towards one of the alcoves. The person inside glowed with
vihs
, and his eyes were stark, glowing gems. They could have been statues.

He turned away, took a deep breath, and straightened his back. “You have to be careful. They do have a history of violence between different groups. I'm not surprised you don't have more of a gang problem. My best advice is to begin a campaign among them that systematically disavows any differences between them. Sponsor cultural events, that sort of thing. Smooth out the variations between different groups by reinforcing the few things they all have in common. You need to avoid aspects specific to a certain knot.”

“Knot?”

“Yes. Families, sects, whatever you want to call them. For example, the Hakerz—the one with four interlocking circular knots and emeralds—will celebrate the supposed occasion of Akhli passing through their ancestral pastures, but you will never catch another group acknowledging this. In fact, they find it offensive. So do not choose this as a refinery-sanctioned event. It will divide them.”

“Interesting. Go on.”

“You also need to make it appear as though this killer is being brought to justice. Increase the visibility of your security personnel. Have them perform random checks. They'll be unnecessary, but the appearance of security will outweigh the few who are bothered by such intrusions. Despite what the Ehzeri say, they do respond to displays of authority, as long as they are comfortable enough.”

He made uneasy steps around the chamber, while Sevari prattled on about metallurgy, his accountant's peculiar birthmark, and his own mother. It looked as though the room swam with a mist, a kind of almost-glow that one didn't exactly see but perceived nonetheless. His neck became hot beneath his collar, and his clothes felt as though they were choking him.

He steadied himself against an empty alcove, but was horrified that he even touched the monstrosity.

“Something the matter?”

Something the matter? The haze, the war-vihs collecting, the only warning they ever give before they destroy whole villages...

“Nothing, sir. I really must be going.” He buried the images of Ehzeri attacks and told himself that here, they were harmless—they were being used, and the haze was just a byproduct of their collective work. Peaceful work.

“Oh, so soon?” Sevari looked a bit sheepish, and for some reason, this juxtaposition with his status as a dictator made Alim shiver.

He moved to leave. “We know that Jorassian has passed through my perimeter of surveillance. I must close in on her now. Perhaps another time.” He bowed.

“Oh, it's too bad, really. I have these dancers, you see. Imported from Prasdim.”

Alim stopped and clenched his jaw. He hadn't so much as looked at another woman since Jasaf had come home as a casket of unidentifiable body parts, and the infuriating part was that somewhere inside, past his discipline, was the urge to take Sevari's offer.

“And, of course, the finest cuisine you'll find anywhere.”

Well, perhaps it could wait just a few hours...

What was he thinking? He began to feel sorry for the man, but forced himself to leave. He had not come to the other side of the world to befriend the famous Till Sevari. Leave that for high-society-obsessed whores from Prasdim.

Without any windows in the place, Helverliss could only guess at the time of day. It had been what, late morning when they had come? He had barely put on the first pot of shalep when the foreboding knock rattled through his shop, all the way to his loft.

It had not been not a friendly knock, or an inquisitive one: those lacked the hardness of the clubs the Corps carried. It surely had not been hands striking his door.

He twisted in the chains, shifted the weight on his feet. He coughed and spat as far as his weak breath would throw his mucus.

Yes, it was a cruel inversion. One Helverliss could actually appreciate for its philosophical value. It was just too bad that it required him to be chained to the wall. He felt like one of the exhibits there, and was sure that this was all Sevari saw in him.

Would Sevari bring in his academic allies to witness the fall of the heretic philosopher? They would love to see his complete ruin here. The Divine only knew how many times he had blown their theories to pieces in small journals. With him imprisoned, they were completely unopposed, except for the legions of scholars east of Tamarck with whom Helverliss had a theoretical kinship. But nobody bothered to listen to them. They just didn't exist to the people of Naartland.

Even in light of this disaster, though, he could not help but smile at the sight of his masterpiece. There it was, encased in glass no doubt made unbreakable by some charm. There, a beacon of nothing, plain black. From this distance, the voices still touched him, and the painting's tendrils of notions flicked from the canvas and tickled his mind. Except, being the thing's creator, he was not alarmed or surprised. He just leaned against his wall and grinned.

Let Sevari do what he wanted. He would never accomplish this—the successful capturing of something so sublime, so universal. The ethereal shadow beings.

Nature's negative image.

The shadow and opposite of primitive libidinal life embodied by the fire giants—pure intent, malicious, manipulative intelligence, and for all that, still caring when viewed from the right perspective. Civilization itself.

He pulled at the chains once again, despite knowing that they would never yield.

If only he could conjure the power once again, he might break them.

The great Leader returned, this time without the Valoii. He spent minutes just staring at Helverliss.

Oh what Helverliss wouldn't have given for a chance to sit down with Sevari, to apply the new analytic techniques to his strange mind. What kind of pathological processes were at work? What kind of coping mechanism was this descent into mystical mania?

Finally, Sevari spoke: “Here is what I need you to do, Noro. I need that power inside me. I know it is the darkness. I must take it within myself and conquer it.”

“You are mad. It does not work that way.”

“It does! When I transmute the raw death contained in that painting—the demise of everything divine in the pits after Akhli tricked the shadow men into falling into their own trap—I will be complete. I will be Akhli himself, the master of both divine forces.”

Helverliss laughed, and a sawing-gnawing plagued his ribs.

“Imagine possessing the primal force of the fire giants along with the cruel intelligence of the shadow men. You must have thought this when you created this horrible painting.”

No wonder there had been increasing instances of vague anti-religious mania in some circles. It was naive and silly, but Helverliss did see how fervour like Sevari's would necessarily create its antithesis in the assurance of atheism.

“Kill me,” Helverliss finally said.

“Kill you?”

“Yes.”

“My good man, why would I do that?” He reached into his coat and produced a writing pad and a pencil. “Will you just dictate to me the
vihs
procedures you used to access this darkness?”

“Never.”

Sevari hummed to himself. His eyes flashed with a kind of random blinking that would have disturbed Helverliss had he been healthy.

Then Sevari hit him.

“Well? What have you to say for yourself now?”

“You don't deserve to know how I did it. I'd sooner give the secret to one of the tyrants in exile from Yahrein than you.”

Sevari then reached to his belt and unfurled a flail.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

It would be fine. Capra had faced her fear before. This usually ended with her shivering in a cold sweat and sometimes even with the task complete, but she could still overcome the fear.

Not likely, but probability wasn't one of her strengths.

She squinted at Feyerbik's schematic, which wasn't much more than a decorative grid of random lines in the poor light of the pub.

“So they are hiding war criminals here too?”

“Shut up, Dannac. That's the last thing I need right now. He wants to make up for what he did. And he dislikes the Leader.”

“Does that make it okay?”

She rolled up the schematic and shoved it back into its tube. “I really don't care right now, Dannac.”

There must have been something in the air. Something besides the miasma that one moment smelled sour and metallic, only to shift with the wind into a sickly sweet odour. What else could account for Dannac's sudden personality change? He was always uptight, but this was different.

And why did he keep making eyes with Vasi? She watched their new companion nurse a glass of water. Every so often, Vasi met Dannac's eyes with a flash of conspiracy.

Finally, she could take it no more. “What? What is it?”

Both just shrugged, and she wanted to slap them.

She ordered another small beer. The selection of ales and lagers at this particular pub tempted her, but they weren't rich yet, and she also needed to keep her wits sharp.

“Okay. So I need to know what your brother looks like if I'm going to pull him out of there.”

Vasi looked puzzled. “Why? I am coming with you.”

“Oh no. Haven't you been paying attention? The only way in is through the clock's machines and drives and whatever else these things are made of.”

“I was going to lead you right in. I am an employee, you know.”

It was tempting, but she knew it was impossible. “You're an enemy of the state now, Vasi. You have to realize that. You can't show up at the front door.” A waitress who would barely look at the three outsiders slammed Capra's small beer on the table. “Gee, thanks honey, thanks a lot.” Even this didn't garner anything more than a slight sneer from the waitress. “Anyway, how might I find Rovan?”

“He is in the tower somewhere. He does errands for the rest of us... I mean, for the tower's staff. That means my section, Section Three, the medical research group, the archivists... the tower has so many floors.” Vasi fidgeted and made marks in the condensation on her glass. “Rovan is just like any other Ehzeri boy. He has dark curly hair. He's a good boy, Capra.”

“I know, but what would happen if I knocked out some other boy and brought him to you? Would we just call it even and hope the kid is willing to pretend to be your brother?”

“I see what you mean.”

She slid a napkin towards Vasi and dropped a pencil onto the table. “Can you draw him? Ehzeri are great artists...”

“I cannot draw to save my life,” Dannac said. Capra stuck out her tongue at him.

Vasi pushed away the paper. “It would be no use.” She stared at Dannac once more, then took Capra's hand. “But there is another trick that might work.”

Dannac grumbled. “I wouldn't...”

Before Capra could question the remark, Vasi squeezed her hand and said, “Try to block the noise from your mind. Try to think of what a waterfall sounds like.”

“Huh?”

But as soon as she did, there came a strange fog, thick enough to blot out the pub around her. She could still feel the pressure of Vasi's hand, but otherwise the fog had completely consumed the external world.

“What do you see?” The voice came from nowhere; the same unseen dimension from which came the sensation of Vasi's hand.

Capra's heart jolted. She stared into infinity, into nothingness; just a greyness and fuzzy light light.

“What have you done? Where did everything go?”

“Good.”

She wanted to stand and run, but the conflict between her presence in this void and her idea of reality paralysed her.

The greyness twisted and knit into an apparition. A boy. On his face was the makings of a mustache, and on his fingers were gaudy rings of copper and cheap stones. He crossed his arms and looked on with a capricious smirk.

In the next instant, her surroundings flipped back to the pub. A passing waitress shot her a look of disdain, and Vasi was hunched forward, mouth dropped open and eyes wide.

“Did you see? Did you see Rovan?”

Now Dannac leaned in, eyeing Capra with an appraising stare and rubbing his chin.