The Temporal Void

‘You should never talk so casually about death and killing,’ he told her. ‘Not to those of us who have killed, and will kill again.’

  ‘You’ll die alone with your dreams broken,’ she cried defiantly.

  ‘If you are pregnant you will inform me, and I will bring the child up myself.’ He pulled his boots on, and went out into the night, leaving his luggage (including socks) behind.

  It had been a long miserable walk back to Makkathran. With only himself for company he was forced to face aspects of his psyche that he didn’t much admire. Again and again he considered Ranalee’s proposal. He suspected she might be right about how impossible it would be to rip the gangs out of Makkathran. Dear Lady, was this the proposal Finitan spoke of? It can’t be. It can’t.

  How he longed for Akeem’s wisdom. Just one last question for his old Master. When he pictured Akeem’s kindly ancient face, his old Master was shaking his head in that amused dismay of his which had greeted so many apprentice follies, as if to say: you already know the answer.

  When dawn did eventually break and Edeard begged a lift off a farmer driving his cart to market, he was resolved. He would take on Ivarl and the gangs on his own terms. That way he gave himself a victory over the darker nature resting in his soul.

  Now, looking along the brightly lit tunnel that seemed to go on for ever beneath the city, Edeard knew he had another long, lonely trek home.

  ‘I really am going to have to get help to deal with these bastards,’ he decided wearily. Neither the tunnel nor the city answered him. He shrugged and got to his feet again. It wasn’t quite so painful as last time. He looked one way, then the other. There was absolutely no difference between them. Both ways saw the tunnel extend out to vanishing point. And the silence was starting to get to him. It was as profound as the time he’d used his third hand to defend himself against Ranalee’s voice.

  Talents, she’d said, useful little talents. Plural. Edeard had never heard of anything like the liquid light which Ivarl and Tannarl could manifest. And to think; when he’d hauled Arminel back to justice across the surface of Birmingham Pool he’d considered himself invincible. It made him wonder how many other nasty little surprises the aristocratic families kept among themselves.

  He probed round with his farsight, trying to find exactly where he was. The tunnel was very deep. He examined the structure above him, searching for a clue of his fall, the direction he’d come from. Makkathran had altered itself again to let him through, but he couldn’t detect any difference in the solid bulk overhead. When he focused, he thought he glimpsed something. His farsight swept back, and there he was. It was like an image of himself embedded in the city’s substance. Falling, with his arms waving madly, his coat trailing smoke. As he studied the image, it moved slowly. If he focused on the substance above, it seemed to rise back, following his own point of concentration. When he changed direction, so did the image. Memory, he realized in delight. The city remembers me.

  Edeard tracked the image of himself to the place where it dropped out of the tunnel roof. It was kind of funny to see himself landing splat on the floor, but it still didn’t tell him which way to walk, just where the House of Blue Petals stood above. He reached out for the city’s peaceful thoughts, and projected an image of Transal Street in Jeavons where he always used a disused cellar to go down into the canal tunnels. Do you have a memory of how to get there? he queried.

  There were no images, which he’d only half expected anyway. Then he began to scrabble round for his footing because the tunnel was somehow tilting. The floor shifted down alarmingly fast, and Edeard slipped on to his back. He started sliding along the smooth surface, picking up speed as the angle kept increasing. It was already way past forty-five degrees, and building. The infinite line of red lights was flashing past. He instinctively knew what was going to happen next, even though it was utterly impossible. How can a tunnel possibly tilt?

  There was never any answer. The only sound in the tunnel was Edeard’s scream as he began to fall down the now vertical shaft.

  When he stopped to draw breath he didn’t bother screaming again, after all this was how he dropped down into the canal tunnels. It was just that he never had such an impression of speed before. Maybe if he shut his eyes . . .

  He opened them hurriedly. That was too much, he had to match up what he was seeing with what his body felt. The red lights were now a solid smear he was going so fast. This was the freedom of the ge-eagles! A side tunnel flashed past, and he gasped in shock. Before he could wonder where it led, another had come and gone. He managed a tentative laugh. No one had ever travelled like this. It was stupendous! This night crowned him king of the city, and Honious take Ranalee, Ivarl and all their kind. For they were the real ignorant ones.

  There was only one truly frightening moment, when his body was twisted by whatever guided him and kept him clear of the tunnel walls, and he abruptly flipped out of the main tunnel into one of the junctions. He drew a sharp breath, but his worry soon faded. If the city wanted him dead he would have joined Akeem in Odin’s Sea a long time ago.

  Eventually, his wayward flight ended as the tunnel shifted back to horizontal. Edeard wound up sliding for a long way on his arse until the tunnel floor was completely horizontal again. He looked up, and sent his farsight flowing through the bulk above. The top of the tunnel changed in that eerie and now thoroughly familiar way, and he fell up. Darkness engulfed him, and a minute later he popped up into the chill air and weak orange light of the Marble Canal tunnel.

  The sight of it was immediately disheartening. Knowing he was going back up to the city streets brought his defeat into sharp focus. He couldn’t tell anyone, couldn’t turn to anyone. Worse, he didn’t really know what to do next.

  Maybe I should just leave. Ride away to Ufford, and Salrana and I will live happily out in the country where we belong.

  It was so tempting. But if he didn’t take a stand against the gangs, and the likes of Ranalee and her family, nothing would ever change. And ultimately the city’s decay would bring the countryside down with it. The problem would belong to his children, and by then it would be even greater.

  Edeard sighed, and started his trek home.

  He spent the next day in his maisonette, longtalking Dinlay at the station, claiming he had a cold. Lian’s trial was in its eighth day, but he’d already appeared in the witness stand. The prosecution didn’t need him again. Dinlay wished him well.

  One of his ge-monkeys was dispatched to the nearest doctor’s house to fetch a soothing ointment, which he dabbed on his scorched skin. Then he apologized to Jessile and asked her not to come round for the evening, claiming he didn’t want to pass on his cold. She commiserated, and got her family’s cook to send round a hamper loaded with chicken soup and other treats.

  What he wanted was to spend a couple of days resting up, thinking about his next move; certainly he needed to talk to Grand Master Finitan. Then at lunchtime on the second day Kanseen longtalked him.

  The Cobara district had always delighted Edeard. It didn’t have streets like the rest of the city. Instead, over a hundred great pillar towers rose out of the ground, all a uniform four storeys high, wide enough for each level to provide enough room for a family to live in. But it was above the towers where the architecture excelled. Each tower was the support column for a broad bridge spanning the gap to the next tower. Most towers provided the base for at least three such bridges, and many had more than that, webbing the district with an array of suspended polygon structures. That was where the district’s true accommodation began, extending up to six storeys high from the low curve of each bridge platform. They formed triangles, squares, pentagons, hexagons and, right in the centre of the district, the bridges made up the famous Rafael’s Fountain dodecagon which housed the Artist, Botany, and Cartography Guilds. The fountain itself roared up from a big pool in the middle of the dodecagon, its foaming white tip rising higher than the arching crystal roofs.

  Edeard walked past the fierce j
et of water, his third hand sweeping away the stingingly cold spray that splattered round the edges of the pool. He was well wrapped up in his fur-lined cloak, with a black ear-flap hat pulled down over his hair, and a maroon scarf covering his mouth. Nobody recognized him through his seclusion haze, though he was very conscious of the ge-eagle slipping through the dull grey sky that was keeping pace with him.

  After the fountain he took a left, heading towards the Millagal tower, with its red and blue striped walls, covered by a leafless network of gurkvine branches. Teams of ge-monkeys were out in force, clearing the last of the slush on the plaza, which extended across the whole district beneath the thick shadows of the elevated buildings. Winter gave Cobara a strangely subterranean aspect, with only sallow slivers of sunlight reaching down through the elaborate structures above. In summer, the plaza was full of people and small markets and street artists and kids playing games. Today, they were all huddled next to their stoves in the rooms overhead, complaining about spring’s late appearance.

  Edeard was glad there were few people about, his mood was still down. He arrived at the base of the Yolon tower, and went through the wide archway. A massive set of stairs spiralled up the central lightwell. He grunted at the sight of them, each curving ledge spaced just wrong for human legs. One day, he reflected as he made his calf-aching way upwards, he would just throw caution away and reshape every Lady-damned staircase in the city.

  Three bridge cloisters radiated out from the top of the stairs. He took the Kimvula one, and was immediately heartened by the bustling atmosphere so high above the ground. The cloister was narrow in relation to the height of the walls on either side, five storeys of ogee arches and oriel windows. Nevertheless, it was wide enough for stalls to be set up along both sides. He unwrapped his scarf as he walked past them, it was warm inside the cloister, the winter sunlight shaded with a faint pink tinge by the crystal roof. People flocked round the various stalls, haggling with the owners. The air was scented with spices, and very dry. Someone, somewhere, was roasting honeyplums.

  A third of the way down the cloister he turned into a narrow side corridor which led to yet another spiral stair. Sighing, he trudged up a further three storeys. The hallway on this floor was illuminated by the city’s orange light radiating from the circles positioned above each doorway. He found the red door, with its ivy hinges painted purple, and knocked politely even though he could sense the minds behind the wall.

  Dybal opened it. The old musician wasn’t his usual self, he still wore a vibrantly coloured shirt, and his hair was immaculately braided, but the forceful good humour was subdued. ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said. His eyes narrowed as he took in Edeard’s blotchy pink face. ‘Are you all right? You look like you’ve been burnt.’

  ‘I’m okay. I had an accident, that’s all.’

  ‘Strange, that’ll be the second accident I’ve heard of this week; there was a fire in the House of Blue Petals two nights ago. You shouldn’t hang around that place, Edeard, it’s been the ruin of many a poor boy.’

  ‘I’ll remember, thanks.’

  Edeard was led into the parlour, which had a bulbous bay window looking out across the pentagonal space outside. Far below them, big nutpear trees grew in a series of troughs which curved out of the plaza floor. Their denuded branches shone bright white amid the shadows of the bridge buildings.

  The rest of his squad were already there. Boyd and Dinlay standing close to a coal-burning iron stove, looking concerned and radiating worry. Kanseen was busying herself with a samovar of tea, her thoughts tightly shielded as always. Macsen knelt on the floor next to a chair where Bijulee was sitting, his arm on his mother’s legs. She’d obviously been crying. Now she was dabbing at her face with a handkerchief, wearing a brave smile.

  Edeard looked at the bruise that was darkening round her eye, and winced. His dismay suddenly turned to anger. ‘Did you know them?’ he blurted.

  She directed a fond smile at Edeard. Even with the bruise, she was still beautiful. ‘No. I told them not to call you. I don’t want you worried by this.’

  ‘Mother,’ Macsen said. ‘It’s our fault this happened.’

  ‘No,’ she insisted.

  ‘What did they do?’ Edeard asked, almost afraid to know. He could see Macsen’s hands clenching into fists.

  ‘Nothing,’ Bijulee said. She smiled up at Kanseen, who brought her a cup of steaming tea over. ‘Thank you. They were just some thugs.’

  ‘Four,’ Macsen growled. ‘Four thugs.’ He gave Edeard a significant look.

  ‘They told me that actions have consequences,’ Bijulee said. ‘And that Macsen should watch out.’ One hand caressed her son’s head. ‘They said you should find a different job. Then . . .’ She indicated her eye. ‘I never saw it coming. Me! I used to think I was city-smart. Lady, how stupid of me.’

  ‘Bastards!’ Macsen exclaimed.

  ‘Cowards,’ Dinlay said.

  ‘We’ve always known that,’ Kanseen said.

  ‘Do you remember what they looked like?’ Edeard asked. ‘Can you gift us?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t,’ Bijulee said. ‘It’s all a bit of a blur. Maybe tomorrow when I’ve calmed down.’

  ‘Of course. I’m so sorry this happened. I don’t know what Ivarl thinks he can achieve. The trial is only going to last another couple of days. Lian and the others are going to get decades in Trampello. What does he think he’s going to get me to do by this?’

  ‘It’s not your fault.’

  Macsen’s jaw muscles clamped down. He continued to gaze up at his mother full of concern and adoration.

  ‘Did anyone see anything?’ Edeard asked Dybal.

  ‘No. It was the middle of the morning in the Bellis market. Hundreds of people were there, and nobody can remember anything. They do what they always do, and rush to help afterwards.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Edeard said again. He felt so useless. ‘I’ll do everything I can to make sure this doesn’t happen again.’

  Dybal gave him a sad smile. ‘I know you will. You’re a good lad, Edeard, I appreciate that. I appreciate what you’re trying to achieve, too. People need hope, especially now. Shame there’s only one of you. This is a big city.’

  The squad got ready to leave. Edeard found Macsen’s blatant hostility quite disconcerting; his friend was normally the most level headed of them all. ‘Can I talk to you for a moment?’ Edeard asked Dybal.

  The musician ushered him into a small room which held over a dozen guitars as well as a drum set. A desk overflowed with sheet music. Normally Edeard would have been fascinated by the instruments, today he took a shaky breath. ‘I know this isn’t a terribly appropriate time.’

  Dybal took off his blue glasses and polished them with his sleeve. ‘I’ll help you any way I can, lad. You know that. You’re important. Not just because you’re Macsen’s friend.’

  ‘Thank you. Er . . .’

  ‘You’ll find there’s very little shocks me, if that’s any help.’

  ‘Okay. I just wondered if you knew anything about longtalk dominance?’

  Dybal raised an eyebrow. ‘The old lust slave serenade? You don’t want to be messing with that kind of mischief, Edeard, no matter how pretty she is. Trust me, there can be repercussions. Anyway, from what I’ve heard, every mother and daughter in the city is forming a disorderly queue to drag you off to bed.’

  ‘I don’t want to use it. I want to stop it being used against me.’

  ‘Ah. I see. Some of those family daughters not taking no for an answer, eh?’

  ‘I wish it was that pleasant.’

  Dybal studied his face closely. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. First off, keep your mind tightly shielded. Which is a shame. You always seem a little more open than those of us born in the city, it helps make you so endearing.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘This technique works through your own weakness. Parts of us should always stay buried, Edeard. Common decency is normally enough to keep those kind of tho
ughts suppressed, but once they’ve been kindled it’s hard to put them aside again.’

  ‘I know,’ he said miserably.

  Dybal’s hand gripped his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. Listen, there is no shame in possessing these thoughts, we all have them. If some little vixen managed to sneak through your defences and fired them up one night then that’s a lesson learned, and a valuable one at that. The fact that it disturbed you this much is a pretty clear sign that it’s not part of your natural personality, which is encouraging to me if not you. And I have faith enough in you to think you’re strong enough to survive a crisis of conscience. But just in case: here’s a recognition gift, it should help warn you if anyone tries that little trick again.’

  Edeard examined the burst of thoughts Dybal shot at him, memorizing the technique. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Now get yourself back on those streets, and generally kick the shit out of Ivarl and his cronies.’

  Nobody in the squad said much as they all walked back across four districts to the constable station in Jeavons. Edeard just knew there was going to be a big argument when they got there. Macsen was going to pick a fight no matter what. Bijulee had been too much. Which meant Edeard was going to have to do something, and he was now starting to feel bad about not trusting them with the real enormity of everything he’d discovered. If the next couple of hours went wrong, then everything they’d achieved would all be over.

  There were a couple of other constables in the small hall, who took a fast scan of the suppressed emotions seething through the squad and hurriedly made their exit. The thick wooden doors slammed shut. Edeard raised his eyebrow at that. Someone’s third hand was adrenaline powered today.

  He unbuttoned his cloak’s neck clasp and sat at his customary bench at the top end of the hall.

  ‘My mother!’ Macsen said brutally.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Yeah? That’s all you can say? Yeah?’

  ‘Did you really think Ivarl wouldn’t try to apply some pressure?’

  ‘Pressure! Lady-be-damned, that was my mother they used as a punchbag. My mother!’