Deep Echoes

  ~~

  Ten minutes later, the spring air playing with her naked neck, Maya was heading to the city walls. Rather than thinking about the locks left at Snow's house, she pondered economics.

  The further you go from the wealthy, the worse Aureu becomes: the best Artificers, Doctors and so on surround Sol's Haven where the taxes flow or Sol's Greeting where aristocrats and landowners live. It was only right that the gifted be rewarded for their efforts. Naturally then, Sol's Haven, Sol's Greeting and those areas around it were cleaner, better policed and suspicious of anyone worth less than twenty thousand Circles.

  Other areas of Aureu were less important, dirtier, in disrepair, policed less often and with less fervour. She walked through the city, seeing it worsen as she left the centre of power behind her, and reflected that such was only natural. It was the way of things.

  In spite of this, Maya wasn't prepared for what lay beyond the city's walls. Theory was one thing, but the slums of Outer Aureu were quite another. As she came to an Escape – one of the great gates in Aureu's gigantic defensive walls – her heart sank. She became bitter, angry. A slight worsening in conditions was all she'd expected, but not the decay before her. Even the Gate's stoic, silent guards watched Aureu whenever possible, only fleetingly glanced at the horror behind them.

  What made the poorly-built buildings, the rough streets and wilting shelters worse was that they were kept at arm's length: a fence, small but symbolic, followed Aureu's circular walls and no buildings, people or even litter crept into this protected area. It was the difference between those inside and the poor wretches outside made physical.

  Maya balled her fists and looked back at the Cathedral. Dominating the sky like an attention-seeking god, pure and white, it supposedly embodied everything that was good about Sol. Really it was an abused child, forced to be a symbol of hope by hypocritical parents. A scream rose in her throat, and she suppressed it. Bile came instead. Resentful, she swallowed it back.

  After leaving some money, eleven Circles, with Snow, Maya had planned to fight muggers in Outer Aureu to get enough money for an illegal barge across the Journey. Now? Now she couldn't taunt these poor people with her pampered, trained body or her privileged, healthy face. Ideas of going back and robbing a jeweller or a baker swept through her, taking from those with, but she ignored them. Her priority had to be escaping Aureu.

  By now, the gate guards were paying close attention to her, a woman in expensive-looking baggy clothes with a wide hat shading her from the spring sun. Maya had to go, had to take from the poor of Outer Aureu. Wiping her eyes, she went to leave this shameful city and walk into its dirty secret.

  One old, one young, the two guards looked scared. News of what she had done to the other guards must be spreading... Maya approached them and chose to casually present Wire's papers. Then she looked away, as though bored with the formality.

  The elder guard leaned over and examined the Privileged Identity Papers, especially the drawing done by an official Artist of the Bureau, and then at Maya. Fine, dark lines of make-up crossed her young face, placed to match Wire's wrinkles as closely as possible.

  “Wire, is it?”

  Taking on the persona, remembering this was a married woman who slept alone by choice, Maya said, “It is, yes. Is there a problem?”

  The guard looked at the papers again. The word 'Privileged' screamed at him, warned him... but it also gave him an out: Privileged papers gave particular rights and exemptions so he wouldn't be blamed if the owner turned out to be, say, a Heretic.

  “No, no problem,” he said. Stepping aside, he gestured for her to leave the city.

  Maya had to suppress a fierce spike of joy. She stepped through the Escape and finally left Aureu.

  Past the fence, she was now in a busy hive. Despite the worn, loose-thatched roofs, shanty buildings and filthy streets, Outer Aureu was filled with life: children played, darting between tiny streets and dead-end spaces, laughing in scrappy clothing and cobbled-together shoes; their mothers and elder sisters hung clothing on twine, emptied buckets into rough sewage systems or huddled together for gossip and support; but there were few men. Those men Maya saw had given themselves to drink or had just given up. The area couldn't be without real men; the decent, proper ones must be working, up before dawn to earn enough money for their family's survival, or fighting as Shields. But their absence left the area somehow empty, desolate.

  Outer Aureu's unabashed cheer bore into Maya, made her reconsider the sombre, frustrated air which hung over Merchant's Haven or the Academy. These people didn't need money to be happy, so maybe it was okay...

  No, these people were happy in spite of their poor conditions, were glad in order to show the world how faithful and decent they were. The false promises of Solarism kept them going, but it also made them enjoy what they had.

  Maya's problems, her confusion, with the nature of Solarism rose once more: the religion was wrong, if only because opposing ideas were suppressed with vigour and determination, but it provided such strength and meaning to people. Chain would bravely face Disciples because of Solarism, and the people of Outer Aureu sought Sol's solace against the ill luck of their births, their lack of proper education and their daily struggle to survive.

  Could either of them do without Sol?

  Maya dodged two screaming children. She had no answers. Now wasn't the time for philosophy. There would be plenty of time to test and probe her thoughts later.

  Using the theory that money cascades, the closest area of true paucity would be at the south eastern edge of Outer Aureu, the furthest from any of Aureu's forms of income, being nowhere near the Journey or the Great Road.

  Using the Cathedral as an anchor, Maya headed south-east. On the way, she shed Wire's clothing. Maya hoped that someone would find the dress and hat and make good use of them.

  The streets became dirtier, smaller, less vibrant, and the people became fewer, darker of mood, and more ravaged by their surroundings. An hour, probably longer, led her to the very edge of Aureu, where the slums gave way to rock-filled fields that could not be farmed and, eventually, the endless beach. Patchwork homes surrounded her, brick buildings with lost tiles and empty windows with beaten earth spreading between them, like the planet's dirty tears. Every person here had been forgotten by the far away Council, left to their own devices.

  Prowling the streets, keeping to the shadows, she scouted the area. She noticed axes, skulls, and ominous black crosses scratched into the rotten buildings: the markings of gangs that fought for supremacy over a nothing kingdom. She could see it now in the peace of day: people would be caught in the crossfire and their families would join the fight, seeking revenge. And the next day, another family would be destroyed. It was a dismal circle feeding from and fed on by other cycles and realities.

  Maya stopped still at this thought. Geos, she realised, was just a mass of influences, desires, and arbitrary formulae in which she was a small factor. Her actions here would shift, or even break, these revolutions. She was an unknown in this area, a new factor.

  She pinched herself. Her emotions were too strong. Leaving Chain, breaking her own little cycle, had left her vulnerable to such fancies. She would take money from Outer Aureu, the only place a spate of thefts would go unnoticed... but it needn't be from the pious, the sufferers. At least three groups of people could afford to donate to her cause... These gangs would pay for her escape and for the sin of adding misery to the forgotten wretches of Outer Aureu.

  To create a plan, she explored the surrounding area further. Gang markings that overlaid one another told her where the battles took place, and carts guarded by grim-faced men marked the food stores. A map of the key areas formed in her mind, and one place stood out as important: an open square of dirty ground, surrounded by symbols that had been drawn and re-drawn, a battleground the gangs fought over. This was where she would start.

  Settling down into a dark cranny, Maya waited for the coming darkness.

 
7

  Chain felt tainted: during her Promise, every other thought was 'Maya'; when anointed with the twice-blessed Oils of Ascent, each drop splashed slowly as though mourning its lost twin; and the Lord running the graduation ceremony seemed to give a pointed speech, emphasizing 'devotion' and 'honour' as though to ensure Chain wouldn't follow Maya's shocking heresy.

  The Cathedral had echoed with his words, an enormous and tall building that should have swallowed the sounds. Stained glass windows painted her in every colour as she had knelt at its centre, alone, and bitten back her feelings.

  He'd even Named her 'Justicar.' Only Contegons earn the right to a second name, but to lumber her with one that was a lesson and a reminder was galling. But perhaps, she told herself as she rose from the ground and became a Contegon, it was Sol's way of reminding her of her mistake, of ensuring that she always knew what the right thing to do was.

  As the sparse audience of friends and family rose after the Naming, she promised herself and Sol that she would make the name strong, into one people would honour.

  Outside the Cathedral, only her parents and her old friends were there. Chain had to force herself not to scream in outrage when there were no cheering crowds, no teachers from the Academy, no one but those close to her to congratulate her on becoming a Contegon. Everyone was busy searching for Maya. But the Naming ceremony had to continue because it always happened on this day, at this time.

  And as the Bureau had said it, it was equal to the word of Sol.

  She had other duties on the day of her Naming, such as the celebratory lunch, attended by the highest-ranking Clerics, those who stand out in one of the lowest Stations, and members of the Solaric Council. The lunch was held in the Chamber – the Guardian’s seat of ultimate authority – so after receiving lukewarm praise from her mother and father and hugging her friends briefly, she marched across Sol's Haven, stiff and unhappy.

  Fellow Contegons passed her, searching buildings, patrolling, ignoring her.

  Anger at Maya boiled within Chain: though she herself was at fault, Maya had a greater share of the blame to shoulder. How could she do this? How could she reject Sol, wound him and the Solaric Council?

  How could she tarnish Chain so?

  She got to the Chamber and shook such thoughts from her head. She had a duty to do. She was Contegon Chain Justicar now.

  Many found the Chamber amazing with its grey marble pillars and balconies, a large and imposing building made to intimidate. But Chain and her parents had been there so often that it seemed... ordinary. She walked inside and, unchallenged, went to the Lunching Room.

  Varnished oak-panelled walls, ten-foot windows shedding light onto thick, purple carpets, the Lunching Room was as she remembered it. Silver platters of aromatic fish, meats, and fruits stood on pristine tables, though the milling guests needn't bother themselves walking to their food: Servants in dark suits offered platters to them, sometimes before they had even finished chewing their last portion.

  A Cleric appeared. Young, podgy, his red and white robes were too small and highlighted the flush on his face. He acquiesced, bowing deeply, and used the proper honorific for someone of a higher Station. “Sire, you're here, excellent. Now if you'll come this way, there are people for you to meet...”

  Chain was then passed amongst the guests: the Cleric led her over to a group, the first full of Artificers, and they absorbed her into their chatter. And as soon as the conversation veered away from her future career, the Cleric interjected and whisked her to the next clique.

  For an hour, she was shuffled around the room, almost at random. Never had Chain felt more at the mercy of Sol's will. It was almost a pleasant sensation at first, knowing for definite that she was doing the right thing. But as time wore on, the affected graces and manners began to strain Chain's nerves: people didn't say what they meant, which stank of secrecy. But, she had to admit, she was glad the guests were polite enough to not even hint at Ma– the Heretic.

  After what felt like a day of greeting people and talking idly and working as Sol intended, the lunch wound down. People had work to do, places to be, people to meet. Only a handful remained. Chain relaxed, expecting to return to the Academy soon.

  Then somebody tapped her shoulder. She turned. It was Tone White, the Contegon Councillor. Chain quickly acquiesced. This was the woman who represented all Contegons, who stood on the Solaric Council and gave them Sol's guidance. Few were as powerful as her.

  “Greetings, sire.”

  “Greetings Chain. You can stand.”

  Rising, she looked into Councillor White's harsh, thin face. She wore her grey hair long and braided it with a white ribbon, an oddly childish touch. Her eyes, vibrant brown, flashed with an emotion Chain couldn't read.

  “How does it feel?” the Councillor asked.

  “I'm proud, incredibly proud, sire. This is an amazing day. I look forward to serving Sol with my life.”

  “And the real answer?”

  “I... I don't–”

  Councillor White put her hand on Chain's shoulder. “Something you should quickly learn, Contegon, is when to answer your superiors honestly. Sometimes, it's better to make things sound worse to get extra resources, or to ignore facts which could adversely influence their decisions. However, with me, you should be completely honest. So, how does it feel?”

  Chain held her gaze for a moment, then looked away. That was the second time that day someone had told her that honesty could be optional, though it was easier to believe Sol's intervention came from Councillor White. It felt like she had been wearing an extra layer of armour ever since Maya's flight and Councillor White had removed it with simple, frank words.

  In return, she decided to be honest with Councillor White.

  “Everything is tainted, sire.”

  White nodded. Her hand remained on Chain's shoulder. “Did you know anything about her departure?”

  Chain looked around quickly. She and Councillor White had been given a wide berth and no one was listening. “I... I suspected, yes,” she replied. “She ordered new armour, armour she didn't need. I realised then that her unusual behaviour wasn't just nerves. I confronted her last night but she was... she'd already... I couldn't make her stay.”

  Councillor White rubbed Chain's shoulder. “No, I doubt anyone could have. Very singular that one, from everything I've read. But then, aren't we all?”

  Chain didn't know what Councillor White meant by that and so simply waited for her to continue. In the small silence, she began to panic: had she given up Contegon Ward's trust, reversed her absolution?

  “Don't worry, this is between the two of us. As I said, I appreciate the... appropriateness of the truth.” Councillor White gave Chain a slight smile. “Anyway, your Ten Days start after this lunch. Personally I recommend getting startlingly drunk.”

  Chain laughed.

  Councillor White's smile widened, making her young again. She stepped away from Chain and took a piece of smoked haddock from a hovering Servants' tray. “You're about to be moved on. Good luck, Chain.”

  With a polite bow, the bloated Cleric gestured for her to move to the next group. Chain mouthed 'thank you' to Councillor White and got a wink in return.

  The next group, probably the only one she hadn't spoken to yet, was much younger than any other. They were surely only in their twenties, which surprised and intrigued Chain. And they wore fashionable, tailored clothing and unusual jewellery instead of robes and uniforms. Who were these people?

  A young man, blond and handsome, walked out from the group and extended his hand. “Hello there.” White-blue eyes held her gaze. Chain gaped, at his handsomeness and his presumption in not acquiescing: no robes or uniform to mark his Station, he couldn't be anyone of importance, yet he greeted her as an equal.

  She closed her mouth, remembering her place and her power. “Greetings. And you are?”

  “Wasp.” He lowered his ignored hand, a flash crossing his eyes. “Is this as dull for you as it
is for us?”

  “I...” Chain couldn't speak for a moment, his frank rudeness, his arrogance disarming her. She squared her jaw, took a breath, and replied, “It isn't dull performing my duties.”

  “So this is your duty?” Wasp replied archly. “Makes sense. I know why the other one went Heretic. What a terribly dull life you've taken on.”

  The group behind him tittered.

  Chain balled her fists. “I... that is, how can you presume to talk like that to a Contegon? Where's your respect?”

  The assembled boys laughed again. They were so young, only a couple of years her senior. And all male. Most of them looked like they didn't belong in Aureu, let alone in the Chamber, and at this party: they were rough behind their expensive clothing and wore disdain like make-up. One of them, short with a crooked nose, grinned at her, cress covering his yellowing teeth.

  “Respect?” Wasp asked. “Why should I respect you? I've had more training than you, Contegon. I was trading back when flowers and boys were your chief concerns. We are equals, at the very least, and respect must be earned. Why don't you have to earn my respect?”

  “I... well, you don't, don't have a uniform...” What a weak argument. Wasp had bested her, much as Maya had. Chain pinched herself, remembered that she was a Contegon now. “That shows that you haven't earned any power.”

  “And you have? That's the difference, that I'm wearing fashionable clothes of no denomination? Mire here,” Wasp pointed to a tall, porous-looking young man with scars around his eyes, “could put on Contegon robes, but he wouldn't be a Contegon. You've only worn your robes for three hours, and those three hours give you the authority to expect my acquiescence?”

  The remaining guests quieted: she and Wasp had become far more entertaining than their conversations. Chain bristled, but then calmed herself. Sol had granted her an opportunity to prove herself once more. As Contegon Ward had said, He sent things to test Contegons. And by Sol, she was a Contegon now.

  “Yes. Three hours of wearing these robes, and I expect those of a lower Station to acquiesce. Why? Because I have passed ancient trials and become holy. The robes are my reward, much as your money and the parties you clearly disdain of are your rewards. So, Wasp, you will bow to me and you'll be glad of the privilege as many people never witness the first hours of a Contegon's career. Maybe in Sol we will be equals, but here, now, we are not and you will bow or else I will arrest you as a Heretic.”

  Wasp gaped at her, his arrogance evaporating beneath Chain's boiling tones. His eyes flashed with amusement and anger before he lowered himself to one knee and raised his hands. The gaggle behind him didn't move.

  “Kneel, you fools,” he hissed to them, looking back over his shoulder with a savage expression. Nervously, they all followed his direction, unable or unwilling to fight with such strength of feeling.

  Nodding, Chain span. Most guests turned away, making it more obvious they had been listening, but a couple grinned at her. Councillor White was amongst them, and she tossed Chain another wink of approval.

  “Our apologies, Contegon...?” Wasp said, leaving the sentence hanging. All of his anger had dissipated, leaving only a faint fascination.

  “Justicar,” she said, owning her name. She turned to Wasp and looked down at him. “Contegon Chain Justicar.”

  “Contegon Justicar. We'll be leaving now. Tell me, will you be at the Ten Days Ball?”

  “Why?” The only way Chain could have made her question less civil was to punctuate it with a kick to the groin.

  Wasp rose and started to smile. “Because I'll want to find you.”

  She gave him only silence in response. After a moment, he nodded and departed without comment. Somehow, he retained an odd dignity in his flight, which infuriated her.

  The remaining crowd also filtered away. She remained, obliged to thank everyone for their time. Soon she was left with just the Servants. Even they disappeared, their homes calling, leaving Chain alone with the expensive furniture and her thoughts.

  8

  A noise, miles away, distant as Sol, broke into Snow's dreams. He didn't want to return, felt instinctively that something was wrong, so he clung to the dream, to his ignorance.

  The sound came again, closer, clearer. “...o... ...no...”

  Someone slapped him. “Snow!” He opened his eyes.

  And it all came back: going to the library, being picked up by a strange woman, taking her back to his house and... and...

  “You've got a lot of explaining to do!” the voice screeched.

  It was his Mother. And she looked angrier than Snow had ever seen her. Which said a lot. Best to play this safe. “Whu?”

  “I said you've got a lot of explaining to do. The door was open. You were out to the world. Are... are you on drugs?” She grabbed his head and pulled an eyelid open, forcing his shuttered eye into the sunlight. “You are!” Hovering above him, she slapped Snow again. He tasted blood. “I knew you weren't studying, I knew it: you know how important it is that you get into the Shields and you ign–”

  Snow sat up and shuffled across the sofa, rubbing his aching cheek. “Mother, no! I'm... I'm not on drugs but I... I was... I was drugged...”

  “That's a pathetic excuse. I ought to beat you senseless. Sol knows your father never–”

  He recognised this tone, that way she held herself. More than once, serious injury had come of it. Desperate not to make things worse, he decided to tell most of the truth “No, Mother, I'm serious. I came home from the Library and there was a girl. She looked scared, said she needed help, so I let her in...”

  Her expression froze. “A... girl?”

  “Yeah. She had these expensive robes on, so I didn't think she'd be a thief or anything. But she slipped me something and then... you... What's wrong?”

  All the blood had gone from her face. She started playing with her fingernails. Was she... nervous? Scared? Whatever it was, Snow felt anxious: such uncertainty never struck his Mother.

  She straightened, looked back at the stairs, and then ran upstairs like a spooked rabbit. Snow was now terrified. He tried to stand, but was too woozy, too drugged. He put a hand on the sofa to steady himself and felt cold metal: Circles had been put into his hand. Maya... She'd wanted to... what? Apologise? As though money was worth the pain his Mother would give him!

  There was a howl from above him. Maya must have stolen something important. Snow prayed it wasn't Granddad's signet ring...

  His Mother ran back down, stopping just as she entered the living room. She looked half-mad: her eyelids twitched, her smile shuddered, and she held a hat in each hand.

  “What... what did she take?” Snow asked.

  “She took my Identity Papers. And some clothes.” She spoke slowly, deliberately, like the words were struggling to get out and they needed to be ordered, controlled.

  Snow couldn't hide his relief. “Is that all? Oh, thank–”

  “No! You thank no one!” She threw the hats to the floor and marched across the room. With one stretched, thin hand, she picked Snow up.

  “She's gone mad. I can't believe it,” Snow thought. He wanted to escape, to run, but his body was still too weak. All it could do was begin to sweat. Very helpful.

  “Have you not heard about the Heretic, Snow?” she asked, pulling his face close to hers. He could smell the wine on her breath. She'd been to see her friends again. Hopefully this explained her mood, her mad–

  She shook him again. Her make-up was beginning to run as her eyes watered. “Well? Have you?”

  “No! No, I haven't, Mother.” Heretic? That's a strong word, a horrific label. Suddenly, he was nauseous, panicked.

  “A Contegon rebelled, escaped just before they graduated. The whole of Aureu's after her. Everyone has been talking about this Heretic, this 'Maya' character.”

  It felt like Snow's heart had stopped. “Maya?”

  “Exactly. Do you see now? Do you fucking see now, Snow? You've helped a Heretic escape. That's why she looked
so wealthy because she was supposed to be a Contegon!” She started to shake him violently, her voice rising to a screech as she flopped his loose body around. “And you! You had to go and help her! She took my Identity Papers! My Privileged Identify Papers! Mine! That's how she'll leave Aureu! You helped her escape.”

  His head swam. Acid rose in his throat, but he kept it back: he would not make things worse by vomiting all over her like he were a baby.

  Snow wished he was a baby again.

  She dropped him and turned away, her shoulders slumped. “And... Oh, the scandal... Even if you're not charged, our... our name will be ruined, Snow. All that work and one stupid boy has ruined... you've ruined everything.”

  Snow did throw up, his meagre breakfast covering the floorboards. He couldn't breathe. The skin on his hands crawled, ashamed of their owner, and his heart quivered and shook. How... how could he have been so stupid? Maya had played him, had spotted the chance of stealing a way out, and then tossed him aside. Another wave of nausea and his stomach emptied itself, dripping disgrace.

  “No. I won't let this happen.”

  He looked up, shaking, ill. His Mother held his gaze, determined.

  “This will not happen, your Grandfather's name will not be sullied by a... a... moment of naivety. That's all it was, a silly mistake. The Heretic would have gotten out somehow, would have found some other home to ransack, some other identity to assume, so we've nothing to hide. We've not done anything wrong. And we won't do anything wrong by hiding this.”

  “What...?” Snow managed.

  “Get up. Get up!” She knelt down and dragged him to his feet. “Come on. I'll arrange a trip for us to see your Grandfather. We're not going to tell anyone about this and we're just going to get out of Aureu for a couple of months. Yes, you will say you wanted to see the Front, learn from the greatest by seeing him in action. We'll wait, wait for this to blow over, and when we return it'll be as though nothing happened. If anyone asks any questions, we will deny it.”

  There was no arguing with that tone. Snow was confused, lost: he had been raised to tell the truth, to be honest and stand under Sol's proud gaze, and now they were... they were going to lie, to hide. How could he square these two things off? Was the truth something you told only whilst it wouldn't hurt you? He felt a crisis of faith build within him, much greater than the crisis of his reputation.

  But, sickeningly, he was also relieved. He could go to prison for this, or be forced onto the Front with the Shields, and he would survive neither. Even if the Bureau didn't punish him, Geos would: he would be tarred as the boy who helped the Heretic. His life would be over either way if people knew.

  “O-okay...”

  “Pack. Run. I'll make the arrangements.”

  “What about Dad? Will he be–”

  “Don't worry about him. He'll have to come with us: it'd look too weird if he didn't. He will come. So pack. Now.”

  Snow got to his feet – giddy, scared, guilty, and shamed – and stumbled to the stairs. His Dad would have to leave his tallow business to his apprentice just before the busiest time of the year: the streets were always filled with lanterns during the Ten Days. They weren't poor, his Dad had an established and strong edge in Aureu, but he would hate having to leave the store. Even if he didn't say it, he would be disappointed.

  Snow then realised that their whole lives were at risk. No one would do business with his Dad if people knew he'd helped a Heretic. Snow... he and Maya, he and his lust, he and his stupid naivety, had almost ruined everything. More than that, what could this Heretic be up to? Could she take secrets, important military plans, to the Disciples? Could Snow have ended the lives of hundreds, thousands?

  There was enough strength in him to climb the stairs and fall into his room. Soaking the floor with his tears, he could only lay there, falling apart.

  9

  Book, the gang lord of the Black Crosses, sat on the family's table. Swarthy with black leather armour and a woven, blonde beard, he was a giant, especially in contrast to the children and wife he held hostage. He pulled his legs under him and eyed this family hungrily, especially the wife. Or, more accurately, the widow.

  His bodyguard Sprint stood impassive by the door. It paid to have someone like him around, someone who cared for nothing as long as he got power. Book knew his kind from his days in the Shields, people who had their cores taken out during fights with the Disciples, who cared for little but personal gain. Yes, it paid to have someone that immoral on your payroll.

  “Wh-what are you going to do with us?” the widow asked.

  Pretty thing, beneath the stress and panic. He could see why her husband had fought for her. Reaching out, he slapped her, hard. The children screamed. Actually, no: the eldest boy merely flinched. He wasn't scared: he was furious.

  “Shut up,” he said. “I'll do with you as I please.”

  The widow whimpered. He slapped her again. More screams. Another flinch.

  Some instinct tickled Book. He looked down at the table. One of the rough iron forks was missing from the place settings. He grinned: the little boy thought he could surprise the big monster, save his family, even after seeing his father die. Book had to admire the spirit at least.

  “Boy,” he said, turning to the eldest, “if you don't put that fork back right now, Sprint here will rape your mother. Then my whole gang will. Until she dies. Maybe after too.”

  The boy's eyes flickered rapidly. Book readied himself to kill. The brat thought better of it though and pulled the fork from his rough-woven shirt. It clanged sadly when he dropped it.

  “Good choice, son,” Book said, turning back to the widow.

  Footsteps approach the house. “Someone's coming, sire,” Sprint said, drawing his sword.

  Book tensed. There were big plans underway tonight, a raid against the other gangs. That was why he'd taken over this house, because none of the other bastards would think to look for him here. He'd thought of everything, planned the attacks down to the minute. This would be his triumph, the point he took control of this area and then moved on to the rest of Outer Aureu.

  But a report this early couldn't be good. Had he been betrayed? Unthinkable, no one would go against him. But that didn't make it impossible...

  Sprint stood aside and a young boy, barely older than the fool who'd thought to stab Book, ran in. His eyes fell on the bloody corpse in the middle of the kitchen, but he didn't react. Book felt proud of that.

  The runner then met his gaze. His young eyes widened, and his mouth parted involuntarily. No, this wouldn't be good news.

  “Sire,” the runner said, kneeling. “The raid was not... successful. Groups one and three charged as expected, but group two couldn't be found.”

  Rage froze him for a moment. He made himself ask, “They deserted?”

  The runner licked his lips. Book grinned in spite of his annoyance. How could he not enjoy inspiring such fear? He relaxed with the pleasure of such power.

  “There was blood, sire,” the boy stammered. “It looked like there was a struggle, but there was no sign of them.”

  “Still, two-thirds of our forces should've taken down the Axes and the Skulls. What happened?”

  Panic bloomed across the boy's face. He couldn't decide which would be more dangerous: silence or honesty. In a sudden bout of genius, he decided honesty was safer. “Someone attacked them. They were highly trained, sire: they managed to take down everyone. I know, sire, it sounds ridiculous, sire, but it's what happened.”

  Book rolled off the dinner table and walked across to the runner's kneeling form. He picked the lad up by the shoulders, examined him carefully as he squirmed, then dropped him and kicked him with a scream of frustration. The boy shot across the room and thudded against a shabby wall, blood spilling freely from his broken lips.

  “Did you see them, boy? Did you?” Book shouted.

  “Th-they were w-wearing a hooded robe, sire...” he spluttered.

  “Great, fucking great.”
Book kicked the runner again and heard the crack of his ribs. The boy screamed in agony. That made Book feel a little better.

  “Sprint, check the area and call in some favours, find out if there's been some... I don't know... Contegons or Disciples in the area. Pay people if necessary. I want to know who fucked us over.” Reaching into his pocket, he produced a large, full purse and placed it in Sprint's hand. “Regardless of the cost, I want to know.”

  Sprint nodded, but was then knocked off his feet by a blur of robes and armour.

  Maya reached out and broke Sprint's nose, so quick that Book barely saw it. Then she placed her foot onto the bodyguard's groin and launched herself at the gang lord, the one she'd come for, the one who'd been sold out by his own people.

  After a life on the Front, Book had better instincts than Sprint so he dodged the attack. Maya shot over him, missing by inches, and landed on her hands. Using her momentum, she flipped over onto her feet and fired back at the gang lord.

  He watched, just astonished. Maya was showing off, but it worked: she took advantage of his shock and knocked him over, then put her knees on his back and reached for his hands.

  His head was on its side, so the gang lord saw only a faceless robed creature pawing at him. He thrashed and struggled, but was not strong enough to shrug his attacker off and could only delay the inevitable.

  Spurned, Maya reached into his thick, greasy hair, lifted his head and bashed it against the floor, breaking his nose and sending white sparks of pain through his head.

  Book screamed, now terrified. The attacker reached for his arms, bound them behind his back, then reached into their robes and produced a knife. “No, no, please no! I'll do anything, give you anything! No! Don't kill me!” he screamed.

  “My Dad didn't get that option,” someone said. Book couldn't see who, but he guessed it was the eldest child.

  “He killed your father?” Maya asked.

  Silence. Probably a nod from the brat.

  Maya looked down at Book and shook her head. She went to stab him, and he whimpered, tears flowing down his face. Disgusted, she leant back, decided not to kill him.

  Book sighed, relieved. Then twin swipes of agony flared through the back of his legs. He screeched and screeched: she had severed his tendons. Over the pain, he felt his blood drip from her blade and onto his bound hands.

  Having disabled the gang lord, who would more than pay for her flight from Aureu, Maya stood and moved to the other gang member. Kneeling, she examined him. “Fuck, I didn't mean to kill you. I'm sorry.”

  Book's world darkened as shock set in. He watched the figure take his purse from Sprint's dead hand and examine the contents. She took two handfuls of Circles, more than half, and walked out of his line of sight. The rich, beautiful sound of money rang out, and then there was a dull thump, like something dull landing on the table.

  “Tell me where I can buy a barge across the Journey and these are yours. Use them as you will,” were the last words Book heard before slipping into unconscious darkness.

  Shortly afterwards, they became the last words he would ever hear.