The Stars Askew (31 page)

For the first time in days he seemed like the more youthful minotaur she'd first met. But she knew he was changing. In spurts and starts, his joyous humor was being transformed into a kind of grandeur. He seemed somehow bigger than when she'd first met him. His sheer physicality had always dominated the space around him; in the street, citizens' eyes were drawn to him, quickly averted, then allowed to wander back shortly after. But he'd always had a frivolous joy to accompany his fearsome mien. Now a new gravitas radiated from him.

Seeing her making mental notes, he stopped. “What?”

She smiled. “Oh, nothing.”

It was midmorning by the time she met Rikard at the Opera. They agreed it was time to report to Ejan what they knew: someone had been passing money from the Marin Palace to Dumas at the Collegium Caelian. But Ejan was absent, and no one knew where he was. Eventually, a captain informed them that Ejan was entangled in an emergency meeting of the nine-person Insurgent Authority. Then Rikard himself was called away to help prepare the vigilant guards. The Authority was debating an assault on the villas at just that moment.

Kata took the time to visit the busy offices of the
Dawn
, where scruffy militants debated the paper's editing, proofreading, and typesetting. Kata joined in, enjoying the minutia of the work, rearranging paragraphs, checking each word, seeing the final polished copy. It distracted her from the loss of Henri, from the debate, from her own troubles.

It was late afternoon when the meeting of the Authority finally ended. Olivier entered the offices, his face grim. “The assault on the villas has been organized.”

Kata looked up from the manuscript before her. “You went along with it? Are you afraid we lose support every time we oppose the vigilants?”

The militants gathered around, leaned in to hear the to-and-fro of the debate.

“Look, I don't like it either, but the city
is
starving, and the villas
are starving us,
” Olivier said uncomfortably.

“I suppose you support the Bolt, too?” Kata placed her hands on her hips, leaned forward. “We may as well liquidate ourselves into the vigilants! They're in charge anyway.”

Olivier raised two palms into the air. “I've written a piece warning of its dangers, but what else are we to
do
?”

So the usual debate went around and around until Kata was tired of it, tired of feeling that they had only impossible choices to make.

As she left the Opera, Kata observed the dark mood of the city. A defiant rally had taken over the Market Square. Slogans read:
STRIKE AGAINST THE VILLAS!
and
EXPROPRIATE THE GRAIN!
Ultraradical agitators passed out broadsheets calling for a war of liberation against Varenis. The evening light turned the hazy sky a luminous overheated gold, common autumn weather in Caeli-Amur, as cool and hot air mixed where the ocean met the land.

Kata hurried home, hoping to see Dexion's calming presence. On her way, the ominous sky darkened—sunset fell earlier now—and a fog dropped over the city. She left Via Persine, littered with raggedy beggars holding out empty wooden bowls, and passed into the factory quarter, where her footfalls echoed eerily along the streets, and figures loomed suddenly from the murk.

She came through the eerie haze to find a small boy in front of her apartment. He was standing on his tiptoes for some reason, knocking on her door. She thought she knew his name, but still said, “Are you looking for me?”

He turned, nodded solemnly. “I'm Pol. Henri sent me. He's hiding. Come on.” Then he dashed down the stairs and scurried up the alleyway. “Come on.”

Pol had been Thom's little urchin, and he might know all kinds of information, but the first thoughts on Kata's mind were of Henri. She hurried after Pol, desperate hope driving her on, into the depths of the roughest zones of the factory quarter. Here the alleyways were abandoned, and dilapidated factories stood alone, their windows broken, doors hanging loosely. Most of these had been empty even before the blockade started, though gas lamps cast dim light from the street corners.

“Henri must have been frightened,” said Kata. “He's hiding here, isn't he?”

The boy ducked into one of the factories without answering, and Kata slipped in after him. Lamplight shining through the broken windows illuminated the haze that hung in the factory, embracing rows of dark machines.

“Hey, not so quick.” She wondered why he didn't answer. “You worked for Thom, didn't you?”

The boy led her along several pathways between the machines, toward the center of the vast hall. The hazy light caught one side of his face, leaving the rest in shadow. “Yes, I worked for Thom. Come over here. Henri's here.”

Something strange echoed in his voice, as if there were a second, deeper voice echoing behind the first. Kata froze. She felt like a thousand ants were crawling over her.

“How do you know Henri?” Her voice seemed weak in the otherworldly atmosphere.

“We grew up on the streets.” The boy seemed small, but he seemed to be large, too, in a way she couldn't comprehend. It was as if there were two of him, the little child and a hulking creature superimposed on top.

“Of course.” Ice ran up her spine. “Why is he hiding here?”

“It's the safest,” said the boy. Now she heard it definitely: the voice, rich and deep echoing within the voice of the child.

Oh no,
thought Kata, backing away: the shapeshifter.

“Where are you going?” Pol came toward her, was lost for a moment in the shadow of a machine. He emerged again into the light, a lithe woman with a stern face and shoulder-length dark hair. Frosty fear ran along Kata's arms. The second Kata smiled cruelly. There was something wrong about her dark eyes.

Kata turned and ran as her double sprang after her.

“Where are you going?” The double's voice was cold, probably male.

Machines whipped past her. Where was the door? She circled the machines several times, guessing at its direction. Pain ran up her damaged ribs and she knew this would hamper her in a fight. Escape was the best option.

Along one dim passageway she spied the exit, a black slab against the general gloom. She hurried toward it. If she could make it onto the streets, she would escape the trap.

Her double stepped out into the pathway before her. Now the shapeshifting Kata's hand glowed an impossible red. Kata slid to a stop. The killer strode toward her, each step more menacing because it was made by some dark replica of her.

Kata spun and ran deeper into the factory, turning randomly along the rows. She came to a stop, slid down between two machines, and listened.

The sound of footfalls sent panic through her. The worst of it was that she couldn't tell how far away the killer was. At times the sounds seemed distant; at other times, almost on top of her.

She slipped a knife into her hand. Fighting her fear, she waited. The footfalls stopped too, and silence reigned in the factory. It seemed like Kata sat there for an age, straining to hear the slightest sound, the softest steps. Eventually she slid from her position between the machines. As quietly as she could, inch by inch, she moved through the shadows back toward the exit.

A black figure came at her in the dark, its hand aglow like searing embers packed together. Kata snapped into action. She ducked beneath the reaching hand, catching again a glimpse of two figures—one lithe, the other hulking—superimposed in the dark. She brought her knee up into the chest of her assailant. There was a crushing groan, and she knew she'd struck true. With a backward whipping motion, her elbow cracked into the killer's head, and the lithe figure evaporated, leaving only a hulking shape stumbling in the darkness.

She threw a knife, but it spun past the assassin's ear and rang against a metal machine.

Kata hoped she might make out the killer's identity, but all she could see was the beastly shape turning in the dark, its blazing hand ready to strike. She fled, down, down the rows until she reached the door. Plunging into foggy night air, she raced along alleyways until they widened into streets. Figures passed the other way, but she didn't stop running until she reached her apartment. Dashing up the steps, she threw open the door to the sight of Dexion frying meats over her stove.

“Ah, I was wondering where you were. Are you hungry?” he said.

Kata slammed the door and locked it. She leaned against it, breathing hard. The light, the warmth, Dexion's protective bulk—the factory seemed nothing but a surreal dream.

“Are you all right?” the minotaur said.

“I'm not sure,” said Kata. Pain ran up her ribs like flames licking up a dry wall.

*   *   *

The killer knew where Kata lived. It was a terrifying idea, that anyone could be a shapeshifting murderer: a washerwoman on the street, a close associate, Dexion himself. How could she trust anyone? She would have to rely on her instinct and the fact that she had been able to see through the shapeshifter's disguise before. One's true self, it seemed, was hard to hide after all.

In the morning Dexion insisted on accompanying her to the Opera. Even more beggars held out wooden bowls on Via Persine. The city had begun to starve. The poorest had become desperate. Soon the rest of them would be too.

“Don't mother me, minotaur,” she said.

“You're not used to it, are you?” He waved her good-bye and continued to the Arena.

Rikard rushed toward her across the entry hall, pushing others out of his way. “I've been waiting for you,” he said breathlessly. “Ejan's up at the Bolt. Prefect Alfadi caught the thieves who were stealing from Marin's treasury. Apparently, they faced the Criminal Tribunal yesterday and they're already on their way to the Standing Stones.”

“No!” Kata frowned.

“Come on.” Rikard was already heading for the square.

They raced through the Lavere on foot, up the Thousand Stairs, across the tiny plazas, and past the gorgeous little boutiques and tiny eateries, many of which were now boarded up.

Everything was happening too fast for Kata's liking. The smugglers caught, tried before the tribunal, and now headed to their deaths, all so quickly? She sensed some vague connection between these events and her fight in the factory the night before. Something was wrong.

A crowd surrounded the Standing Stones. It seemed to Kata that most of them had come up from the Lavere and the slums, a collection of low-on-their-luck ruffians, some missing teeth, their clothes little more than black rags. They leaned over the palisade that protected the pathway to the Stones, grinning and calling to one another. Hundreds more gathered on the amphitheater steps.

The Bolt stood on a wooden platform in the center of the Stones. Black-suited guards were positioned on each of the platform's corners, pikes in hand. More guards roved officiously through the space that curled around the area, protecting it. To the side of the platform, two more of the killing machines stood half finished.

At the top of the steps, Kata spied Ejan and Alfadi looking on together. Alfadi pointed toward the monoliths and explained something to the vigilant leader.

Kata and Rikard forced their way toward him, through the masses of pressing bodies, sweaty and stinking and hot. About halfway there, Kata made out Dumas's bloodhound face, surrounded by Numerian guards, fine dark-skinned men who had noble bearing despite their subjugation. She noted Dumas's baggy clothes, one size too large, as if he were hiding something. Before the overthrow of the Houses, he was said to have spent much of his time across the sea. Kata wondered what else he had acquired there besides slaves. Like most of the Collegia, he swam beneath the surface of things, a silent invisible creature. He was unmarried, she knew that much for sure, preferring—or so the rumours went—the louche attraction of the prostitutes of the Lavere, many of whom he probably owned.
What kind of man was happy to own others?
she wondered. A man didn't succeed under the regime of the Houses, as he had, without all sorts of transgressions.

As she passed by, Dumas waved, and smiled malevolently. Did he know she and Rikard suspected him?

Ejan caught sight of them as they approached. “I'm so glad you've arrived.”

At that moment a cheer went up among the crowd. A prison cart rattled along the street, ratty-looking prisoners gripping the bars and staring balefully over the crowd. A woman in a pretty but stained dress reached out to the throng, but no one responded.

Among the dozen prisoners sat three thaumaturgists, bound and gagged on the floor. One of them was Detis, the thaumaturgist who had rowed Kata and Rikard through the Marin Complex on their first visit. The greenish tinge of his skin seemed darker now, and his haggard look seemed desperate. His suit was torn near the neck, revealing a glimpse of the tattoo of two hands clasping—the sign, she figured, of the mysterious organization called the Brotherhood of the Hand.

Kata's mind raced: Could Detis have been the one who wrote the letter to Armand? It was possible, certainly. As a thaumaturgist, he might have known Armand at Technis. Yet why had Aceline decided to meet up with two of the Brotherhood at the Baths? Kata desperately wanted to slow events down. Instead, they were rushing past like a thousand deadly arrows.

Since she had last seen Alfadi at the Marin Palace, he had allowed his hair to grow around the sides of his formerly shaved head. White as his pupils, the hair gave him a venerable air that muted his radiating power. He was changing, too. This city had a way of wearing everyone down.

Alfadi touched her on the arm. “We caught them returning to Marin in a gondola. There was barely a need for a trial.”

“Then you know they were passing money to the Collegia and Dumas,” said Kata.

“We're keeping an eye on Dumas right now,” said Ejan. “At the moment it looks like it's simple corruption. You know the Collegia—always after financial gain. What do you expect from merchants and petty tradesmen?”