a kick shattered the thug’s kneecap and a louder snap as the collapsing man’s neck was twisted at an angle his spine could not survive – at least, not while still attached to his head.
Duncan Connor rose up from the floor as a breeze from the corridor outside lifted the papers pinned across the wall. The lassie was gone. She wouldn’t be surfacing at the old tavern on the street corner again, but then Middlesteel had a thousand more taverns like it scattered across its rookeries in the shadows of its pneumatic towers, and a thousand more like her, no doubt, too.
Lifting the suitcase up carefully, the lid still open, Duncan Connor placed it on top of the mattress of his bed. ‘I’m sorry you had to see that wee barney. Are you all right?’
<I think so. Who was that woman?>
‘Nobody you need to worry about.’ He turned the suitcase away from the direction of the thug’s corpse, hiding the sight of his dead would-be assassin.
<It’s nighttime, isn’t it? I should away and sleep some more.>
‘Aye, you should.’ He shut the suitcase gently and placed it back inside the cupboard, making sure to hide it properly under the threadbare blankets this time.
Duncan Connor looked at the corpse. No doubt the thug would be known to the Middlesteel constabulary, his blood code turning on the drums of their transaction engines, a Ham Yard arrest record linked to his citizen file. But if he involved the police in this hubbub, one of them would only leak the tale to the news sheets and Connor of Cassarabia’s name would be linked to yet another horror. It was hard enough finding work as it was, and he had the promise of a little job coming his way from the circus that might vanish if he was dragged along to listen to a coroner pontificate and call witnesses from the jinn house. No, the wee waters of the Gambleflowers would do for this one.
The river took everything, in Middlesteel.
Kyorin departed the perfumery shop along Penny Street leaving an assistant looking in surprise at the silver coin in her hand – not because she had seen through the counterfeit, but wondering how someone as dishevelled as Kyorin actually had the money to buy an expensive bottle of scent for his beloved in the first place. The last couple of days hadn’t been kind to Kyorin, harried and hunted across the streets and slums of Middlesteel by the monsters, staying only in cheap, anonymous dosshouses. He stopped in an alley and squeezed the scent bulb, spraying his clothes and exposed skin, even his hair. Watching the carts and carriages rattle past and praying that the stench of this perfume would be enough to mask him from his hunters for a while.
One of the residual thoughts of the policeman whose mind he had joined with floated up unbidden. <You smell like a whore’s handkerchief.>
‘Shut up,’ Kyorin muttered. ‘When I want your advice, I’ll ask for it.’ He had grown uncharacteristically cantankerous with hunger and desperation.
A vagrant stumbled past, his clothes so frayed and ancient they were almost black. He stopped when he saw Kyorin slumped against the wall, muttering to himself. Taking him for one of Middlesteel’s own, obviously. Two friends together, living low on Jinn Lane.
‘Penny for an old soldier? Fought at the Battle of Clawfoot Moor, I did.’
‘What’s a soldier?’ asked Kyorin.
Laughing, the vagrant raised a bottle of cheap grain whisky to his lips and stumbled deeper into the rookeries.
The dead policeman’s residual pattern jumped out unbidden again. <Lying old rascal.>
There it was. Soldier, like a keeper of the peace – <I was a bloody crusher.> – but they acted in rituals of mass aggression between societies, formalized right down to the different colours of the tunics the opposing sides wore to mark their allegiance. <War, it’s called bloody war.> Ah, Clawfoot Moor was the final battle of the Kingdom of Jackals’ civil war between its monarchy and parliament, some six hundred years before. Kyorin’s hunters would appreciate this, although he could thank all that was holy that they were not here to do so. The vagrant’s memory was so raddled the only battle he could dredge up for his beggary was something he had been taught long ago in school.
So many voices in his mind. Too many voices. Kyorin rubbed his head frantically. ‘I just wanted to learn to swim.’
‘I can swim,’ the vagrant called out from further down the alley.
Kyorin had to focus. Two days of adrenaline-fuelled near escapes, low on sleep, nearly out of counterfeit currency to exchange for fruit from the sellers who wandered the streets of the capital with their trays. He pulled out the book from his pocket, the pages still damp from his escape down the River Gambleflowers. Velocities and Trajectories of Science by Timlar Preston. It had originally been written in Quatérshiftian, then translated into Jackelian; not that the language it was written in would have mattered to Kyorin. There was enough detail in the book that he could model the mind of the individual who had written it, feel its uniqueness. Resting his palm on the pages, he reached out.
<Timlar, can you hear me?>
Far above in the holding spheres of the Court of the Air, Kyorin sensed one of the cells of the aerial city filled with a screech of recognition, the noise muffled from the warders patrolling outside by riveted armour and pulsing curse walls. <You have been gone for so long, what happened to you?>
<I haven’t been able to contact you. It hasn’t been easy for me,> Kyorin was burning up, running a fever from too much time exposed to the near constant drizzle of the Kingdom of Jackals’ capital city. <The things I told you about have been hunting me, the masters’ servants. My scent is unique in this city and they are nipping at my heels. I can sense them getting closer, even as we speak.>
<I’m not going mad, am I? You aren’t a figment of my id, you’re real?>
<You’ll find that out soon enough,> said Kyorin. <I wish I were a figment of your imagination, Timlar, I truly do; that all I have warned you about was a fiction.>
<I thought you might be my own genius, broken free of my imprisonment up here. Coming to remind me of who I was, what I once achieved …>
<You have a little more to achieve yet, I think,> said Kyorin.
<I am very nearly finished,> said Timlar Preston.
Kyorin received an image of the Quatérshiftian prisoner brandishing his pencil like a sword, ready to sketch out the few missing pieces of the mechanics he needed for his device.
<The help you have given me, it is amazing. Concepts that I could never—>
<Merely knowing something is possible, that is often enough to begin the journey,> said Kyorin. <And you had been working along the right lines long before I contacted you.>
<I still have not find a way to stabilize the wave front, though. That is where we always failed back in Quatérshift, we always lost focus during the test firings …>
Kyorin listened and began to fill in the gaps. Thank the stars it was he who had survived the masters’ hunters, rather than his ignorant desert-born friend swept away by the river. Half an hour later Kyorin was finished, the voice of the man held captive by the Court of the Air fading as the power of Kyorin’s weakened body began to wane.
<That’s
