The Fade kj-2 Read online

  Everyone's dead. I'm dead too. I just have too much hate to lie down.

  At the end of the balcony is a door, leading to a corridor and rooms beyond. I'm used to the eerie emptiness of a sleeping mansion from a dozen infiltrations, but a deserted one has a uniquely forlorn air. It's an old, stately place, heavy with time. I pass through it, caring nothing for its charms.

  They haven't gone far in. It takes me a little searching, but I find them. The room has the feel of a study about it, with a library gallery running around the top and a single double door. A heavy desk takes pride of place, flanked by a solid glass globe of Callespa, with the known lands suspended three-dimensionally inside, a complex cavern system of precious metals. The shinestones have been hooded and lanterns burn. Ledo always preferred firelight. It leaves the gallery in shadow. That suits me.

  Having heard their voices through the door, I make my way to an upper level and through an attic crawlway to a trapdoor that opens on to the gallery. Blueprints were easy enough to acquire, for someone like Keren. I owe him a debt that is becoming colossal, but I think he sensed the finality of this and didn't complain. He even offered to act as lookout for me, to send up a signal if any unexpected guests should arrive at the mansion.

  From the gallery, I can look down on them. The Gurta have shed their disguises. Two stand in ceremonial sap armour, pale and faintly iridescent, hands near their swords and bows on their backs. The third is standing before the desk, talking closely with Ledo. Even at this distance, I know him. I may have had trouble recalling the name, but I'll never forget the face of the man who told me I was an animal without passion. Close to thirty years have changed him, weathered him like bark; but he's still indisputably Belek Aspa.

  Ledo has three Cadre with him. Caydus, Jyirt, and a chthonomancer known as Ashka. Jyirt and Caydus are two of a kind, massive brawlers who make deceptively subtle fighters, just like Rynn. The three of them were good friends, in their time. It bothers me a little that I'm going to have to kill them.

  Caydus is heavily armoured, ruddy-faced and blond: he looks perpetually furious. Jyirt is bald-headed, grey-skinned and sunken-eyed, and wears a scornful expression which makes people instinctively mistrust him. He's clad in light blue leathers, designed for mobility. Ashka is a little more flamboyant by nature, long hair scraped back into a ponytail that dissolves into colourful extensions. His face is a symmetrical tapestry of skinmarks. He wears a tight black bodysuit beneath plates of light alloy, his arms folded across his chest.

  There's a popular misconception that chthonomancers have the natural ability to sense things beyond the power of normal mortals, but I know their powers only work when they're trancing, and that drains them fast. Chthonomancers rely on meditation and focus to tap their inner power. They can get into it pretty fast, but it doesn't just turn on and off. Catch a chthonomancer in the street with a knife, and he's as helpless as anyone.

  Nevertheless, I decide to kill him first. Because if he gets time to do what he does, then I don't stand a chance.

  Below me, Ledo and Belek are leaning over something on the desk. A document. Ledo signs with a flourish, and then hands the pen to the Gurta, who does the same. I adjust my face mask carefully, scrutinising their body language. What kind of deal have they made? I'm thirsty to know the details of the betrayal. I want to understand everything about why my master has done what he's done.

  Then they're clasping hands, Eskaran-style. Smiling. Like old comrades. It's a horrible sight, a mockery. Eskaran and Gurta together, wide grins on their faces, congratulating each other on the murder of their kinfolk. Then Belek turns away, motions to his bodyguards, and the three of them head for the door.

  Voids, it's over already? I was only just in time. Once they're gone, they're gone for good.

  No time to revise my plan. No time for second thoughts. It's now or not at all.

  Goodbye Jai. Goodbye Rynn. Goodbye Mama, Papa, Chada. Goodbye Veya. Goodbye Orna.

  Now!

  4

  I go to ground in the dweoming-haunted slums of Grasp Hook, in the run-down neathways quarter of Veya. It's a far cry from the Tangles, or the elegant districts that line the river. Grasp Hook is a dark and dirty warren of narrow streets, its buildings tall and leaning drunkenly. The glow of the shinehouses is blocked by the clutter, plunging the district into shadow. Nobody comes to light the lanterns in Grasp Hook. The perfect place when you don't want to be found.

  My chambers at the Caracassa Mansions are far too dangerous now. I can't take the risk that Ledo will try again. He won't fail twice. So I've let it be known that I'm travelling to the subsurface to take the vacation that Ledo suggested, to recuperate from my ordeal. It'll buy me a little time, and my absence won't seem suspicious.

  Only Keren knows I'm here. He needs to be able to find me, in case he has information. But it's Nereith that I'm going to meet now. Several turns ago I gave him the name of a barge. I've come to hear whether Silverfish is satisfied. Whether he'll fulfil his part of the deal.

  The streets of Grasp Hook are busy. Clusters of kneeling men throw dice at the foot of some steps. Hawkers sell food from their stalls, treats of meat and mycora pastry that smell so good because they're so bad for you. Dealers and tough guys lurk in gangs, sizing up passers-by. A dweoming stumbles past, blind on fireclaw, prophesying incoherently as he goes.

  The air is dank and chill, redolent with grease and sweat and the washing that criss-crosses the street on lines overhead. I head towards our appointed meeting-place, my mind calm. Things are making sense to me now. I don't like the answers I've got, but it's better than having none at all. I feel like I've got a handle on matters. I feel like I'm in control, if only a little.

  This is the way it goes. Ledo, through covert means, establishes a channel to the enemy: Belek Aspa, a powerful Gurta Minister. As a prominent member of the Turnward Claw Alliance, the pro-war faction of the Merchant Council of Plutarchs, he's privy to the highest information. The Turnward Claw Alliance works closely with the Eskaran Army, and they collaborate often on military matters. After all, the Eskaran Army is composed of forces provided by the Clans.

  Clan Caracassa, as a manufacturer of battlefield medicines, has a vested interest in the continuation of the war. In fact, they're desperate that it does continue, as they're being beaten out of the market by other competitors and only a healthy turnover of wounded can prevent them from losing money and influence. So Ledo feeds his contact information about certain military events, like the one at Korok. Perhaps his contact returns the favour. It's not much, just enough to ensure that nobody ever gains the upper hand in the Borderlands. Enough to ensure the war keeps going.

  What kind of profit are you making, Belek Aspa? I remember you now. You didn't like my music. You thought Eskarans were animals. What's your angle?

  Then there's the impeding marriage of Liss to Jerima Dew, son of Jerima Vem and scion of Clan Jerima. Clan Jerima are textile manufacturers, peacetime profiteers who would benefit from the end of the war, because demand for their luxury goods would then increase. Marrying into that Clan provides Ledo with a back-up, the possibility of a merger if, despite his efforts, the war does come to a premature end.

  But until the marriage is finalised he's not ready. If the military push succeeds, the war will be over. Clan Caracassa's position will be much less favourable; Clan Jerima might renegotiate the terms of the wedding or call it off altogether, leaving Caracassa high and dry in a world that doesn't want their medicines any more.

  Ledo can't allow that. The push has to fail. The war can't be over until he's ready for it to be over, until he's set up the framework for a smooth shift into peacetime industry. He knows it's inevitable. Public opinion is growing against the war, and the time will come when the people are out of patience. Ledo is preparing for that moment. Casta thinks that by dividing himself he's showing a lack of dedication, but I think he's being canny. He senses the changing wind and tacks to meet it.

  But the preparation
s aren't done yet. So he will betray us once again, like he did at Korok. He will meet with Belek Aspa and give him the plans for the great operation that our Army hopes will end the war. It will make him a huge profit, increase his influence, and buy him the time he needs to set up a solid exit strategy for when the conflict against the Gurta is no longer sustainable.

  You were smart, Ledo. You made sure your own forces were involved in that little trick at Korok. You made sure you were wounded as badly as the other Clans, so suspicion would never fall on you. But you cost me my husband and you nearly took my life, and now there's a chance that you'll take my son's, too.

  So I'll stop this. Somehow, I'll stop this. I'll kill you, and Casta will be Magnate then, and she'll use her influence to get Jai back, and maybe Operation Deadfall will still go ahead or maybe it will be aborted. All I know is, you have to die, Belek Aspa has to die, and nobody can know it was me who did it.

  But I know where to find you, Ledo. I know where and when you're meeting up with the enemy. And I'll be coming for you then.

  Nereith is waiting at a table, one of a dozen laid around the front of a rickety slop-house. The other tables are busy with garrulous men and the occasional couple. An untouched bowl of stew steams in front of him.

  'Not hungry?' I ask as I sit, mustering a little humour for old times' sake.

  He gazes at it distastefully. 'They made me buy something so I could sit here. How you barbarians eat the chopped-up and burnt corpses of dead creatures is beyond me. If you've never tasted the hot spurt of newly spilt blood as you tear out the throat of your meal, you've never lived.'

  'I think I just became vegetarian. So what about the barge?'

  'The information was good, of course,' he says. 'I knew Silverfish could trust you.'

  I sit back, steeple my fingers and then let them cross into a clasp. 'So. I did what you asked.'

  He shows his teeth. 'Silverfish was most impressed. He has agreed to locate your son for you.' A half-smile. 'I'm sure he would be happy to work with you again in the future.'

  'Just you worry about finding Jai for me.'

  'We're on it. Expect to hear from us soon.'

  'I'm sure you can find me, if you need to,' I say, getting up.

  'Oh, I'm certain of that,' he replies.

  'Enjoy your meal,' I tell him, and I walk away. I head over to the other side of Grasp Hook after that, to an anonymous doorway in the middle of a wreck of slums. There I knock and wait. The last time I visited this man, things were very different. He's fallen on hard times. When he opens the door, I see that he's lost weight, and not only because he's missing a hand.

  'Hello, Ekan,' I say. For the moment, I live in the upstairs room of a dweoming den. I'd originally intended to rent it, but one look at me sent the owner of this place shrieking into a corner, so I just walked in and stayed. Having a madwoman downstairs is a minor inconvenience, but she doesn't dare ask me for payment, so I don't pay. Whenever I go near her, she shrinks back and mutters that I have blood on my hands. No shit, sister.

  Her name is Dust, and she's a scrawny thing with a haggard, tormented look that comes from years of bad fireclaw from shabby cut-joints. Dweomings use that stuff to get in touch with their chthonomantic powers, unlike real chthonomancers who are skilled or powerful enough to make magic without chemical assistance. But pure fireclaw is too expensive for these urban mystics, so they get it chopped with all kinds of crap, and it fucks up their brains in the end. Shame, really: sometimes the dweomings are the only recourse for the poor and destitute when they need healing or guidance or aid. Chthonomancers are all in the employ of the Clans.

  After I've got what I need from Ekan, I make my way back to my room. I keep myself pretty covered up in Grasp Hook, so no one asks questions and no one knows I'm Cadre. But they still sense that I'm not someone to be messed with, so they let me be. A woman shouldn't last a turn here without protection, but they see I'm not afraid and they accept me as one of them. A fellow predator.

  The den is run-down and dingy. It occupies the bottom two floors of a six-storey house, part of a terrace which collapses into rubble at the poleways end of the street. Grimy windows with time-warped frames glow with lantern-light. Small animals scuttle through the shadows.

  I come in through the front door and Dust is there, her thatchy, multicoloured hair all over her face, tiny bones tangled in the knots. She's sitting on the bare floorboards in the middle of a chalk circle, surrounded by incense pots. A fireclaw pipe is loose in her hand, and she looks comatose, but somehow she's still in a slumped-yet-upright position. Her head hangs, chin resting on her breastbone.

  I make my way across the room, picking through the strewn bits of arcane junk that she uses to connect with her inner force, or something. I'm almost at the stairs when her head snaps up and she gives me a filmy glare.

  'Blood on your hands!' she screeches, then trembles and begins to sob. 'So much blood…'

  I've heard it before, and I didn't care then. So I head upstairs, to my dim little room. I don't bother lighting the lantern. This place is cold and there's nothing here but a shabby bed that reeks of dust, and a chest of drawers, half of which don't open for reasons I frankly cannot fathom. I lie down and try to think of other things I could be doing, other leads I could follow. But I daren't expose myself for now, so all I can do is wait.

  I'll find you, Jai. I just have to see you one more time. I'll tell you how much I love you and I'll explain everything. But first, oh please, just let me know you're safe. Because I should have fought your father harder, I shouldn't have been weak. You're where you are because of me. Maybe nothing can change that now. But at least I can say sorry. At least I can do that. At least… I wake to the sound of a tread on the stairs, and I'm off the bed and across the room almost before I realise that I'd fallen asleep. My shortblades are out, held ready as I press myself against the wall to the left of the doorway. There's two of them, one lighter than the other, male and female.

  They're coming up tentatively, the boards creaking beneath their shoes. Either they're trying to sneak, and making a bad job of it, or they've guessed I'm waiting for them. Both say assassin to me.

  Closer. Almost at the top now. I keep my muscles loose, ready, blade pointed down to plunge into the collar of the foremost. Closer.

  How did you find me, Ledo?

  'Orna?'

  I exhale. Keren steps through the doorway, scanning the empty room. He catches sight of me standing next to him in the dark and jumps out of his skin.

  'Fuck me! Orna, you creepy bitch. What in the Abyss are you doing standing there?'

  I sheathe my shortblades as I walk into the centre of the room. 'Thought you were someone else.' Then I catch sight of a frightened-looking face peering into the room from the stairway, and my relief becomes amazement. A beautiful girl, dark and intelligent. The girl my son loves.

  'Reitha!'

  'She was already in Veya,' Keren explains. 'Here for a conference that her master was attending. My man in Coldwash found her. Once I told her you were in the city, she demanded to see you. Wish all my jobs were so easy.'

  'It's okay, Reitha,' I say, as she's clearly still alarmed by my reception. 'I'm so glad you could come.'

  She hurries into the room and clutches me in a tight hug that takes me by surprise. There's desperation in it. Something dreadful makes its chill way towards my heart.

  No. I won't think it.

  She steps back, and holds out a letter to me. It's an official communication. High-quality paper, a broken Army seal, a postmark from three dozen turns ago. I don't look at it, but at her. Her lip is trembling, eyes filled with salt water.

  No. Please, no.

  My hand moves of its own accord, reaching out to take it from her, trembling. I swear I don't know whether I'm going to rip it up or read it, but it doesn't matter. My fingers are palsied, and it slips through my grip and on to the floor. Keren has worked out that something is really, really wrong. Reitha obviously hadn't told
him. He doesn't have any idea.

  'He heard what happened at Korok,' she said. 'He thought you were dead.' Her voice chokes off, throat swollen with grief.

  'How?' I can barely manage the whisper.

  'Poison,' she says. 'He took poison.' Tears spill down her cheeks and she has this look, this empty look of incomprehension. 'He thought you were dead,' she says again.

  My legs go from under me. Suddenly they can't hold me up any more. Keren half-catches me, but he only succeeds in slowing my fall. My vision is swarming. I can't breathe properly.

  He killed himself while I was in prison. All of this, everything, and I was too late all along. He took his own life. He took his own life because of what happened at Korok.

  He killed himself because of what Ledo did.

  I'm screaming, but I can't hear it over the roar of blood in my ears. I only know that if I don't let it out it will rip me apart. Keren and Reitha are trying to help me, to offer comfort or to stop me hurting myself, but they don't exist to me now. Only the screaming is left. Oblivion comes swiftly, but not fast enough.

  My son is dead.

  My son is dead.

  My son…

  5

  Two turns later I meet the man who just tried to have me murdered and apologise to him. It doesn't rank among the easiest things I ever did.

  The arrangements are made through the twins, and by their influence I manage to get an audience. They both seem relieved when I tell them my intentions, but Casta is cold and I get the impression that she's disappointed in me.