Chapter 59
Investigation absorbed Maya and Request. Though their interviews only lasted hours, documenting them and comparing notes took much longer. When not filing reports or preparing for the next interview, they reviewed the suspects’ files and reports for secret messages. It was long, laborious work, but neither complained, so absorbed in the idea that a Councillor had killed their friends that nothing else mattered.
That morning was the first day they’d had any free time. Cleric Councillor Pale was not available until the afternoon, breaking their routine of going straight to their interview on waking. After breakfast, they sat in Maya's hidden home, the upper windows open to allow a faint, cleansing breeze, and talked.
“I can't believe how powerful the Stations are,” Request said, holding up a wad of paper. “Each can move people and materials and Sol knows what else, and no one follows it.”
“Except for the Clerics,” Maya said, thinking of Buckle and the coming confirmation of Heresy.
“Yes, the Clerics watch the totals, but they only know what gets reported.” Request scrabbled amongst the papers. “Remember how I said my Gang always stole from the Artificers? Well, that didn't get noticed, did it? If it had, the Clerics would've reported it to the Contegons, and we'd have been caught.”
“I suppose the Guardian trusts his Councillors to marshal themselves,” Maya said, realising how hollow those words were even as she said them. “It is a stupid system, isn't it?”
Request leant forward. “It allowed Lun's Burst.”
Maya couldn't argue there. The Station system allowed pockets of absolute power. Each Station, if challenged, could cripple Geos out of spite. Perhaps the Guardian knew this, had decided to preserve a flawed system rather than allow it to crumble during a war.
“Where's Councillor White?” Request asked.
Tone White had been too busy to meet Maya and Request for days. Running the Contegons, managing the Academy's affairs, and reviewing reports from the Fronts took up most of her time. As such, they'd not had chance to review their findings, or discuss techniques to question the other suspects.
“She's looking after her Station,” Maya said.
“We'll have to interview them all again, you know,” Request said. “Our suspects.”
“I do. But this is the way of things: every Councillor is busy with the affairs of their Station. It's why we have to fit our interviews around their diaries.”
“I've been meaning to ask,” Request said, looking away. She folded her arms. “Why aren't you as busy as Councillor White? Why do you have so much time to yourself?”
“Besides that I cleared my diary for a week’s holiday?” Maya asked.
The young girl winced. “That's a good point.”
“There is more to it, though,” Maya admitted. “I can't interview Acolyte candidates until the other Stations have selected their intake. Some Councillors allow me to select from their ranks, but others refuse me access, and I cannot intervene until they’ve decided who’s untouchable. It's a stupid system, but I had to negotiate it with fools who protect their fiefdoms.” Maya leaned forward. “Does that explain it, Request?”
“But you don't have to take just from the Stations, do you?”
Maya licked her lips. “Much as I wish I didn't, I am advised to by Lord Councillor Blind. You were an exception, Request. And I had to fight hard to get you.”
Request's ascension.... Unlawful Painting, known as 'Tagging', was a strange and rare crime, so a sudden spate by one artist had become the talk of Aureu. Stay-at-home Contegons had patrolled Sol's Haven and Sol's Landing to prevent the artist known as 'Truth' daubing anti-establishment messages on their walls. They had been unsuccessful, as Truth proved a clever and fearless risk-taker.
It came to Maya's attention when her building was Tagged. The painting, a rough depiction of someone half Disciple, half Lord, had been spectacular, but the swollen Cyrus Force within it had really drawn her. Truth, whoever they were, was an ideal candidate for the Acolytes.
From then, in her spare time, Maya hunted Truth. Her Spirits scoured Aureu, and she met with stay-at-homes, read every related report. It took weeks, but she eventually caught Request painting in the same art style, and with the same depth of feeling. She let Request know she was watching, but told her to finish, wanting to watch the transfer of Cyrus Force. It'd never crossed her mind that an artist could wield Cyrus Force so effectively, but, by the time her anti-war poem was complete, Maya was convinced she should take Request, and every artist she could, as an Acolyte. This year's search was keyed to find them.
“It's not fair,” Maya said, breaking from her memories, “that the Stationless have so little power, but we can only break that principle one step at a time. You are the first Stationless Acolyte.”
“You don't count Snow?” Request asked.
“Would you count the son of a Shield-General?”
Request shook her head. “So, you're saying that the only way to change things is from inside?”
“Kind of,” Maya said, nodding. “I think the only way to change things is to have power. You can try to seize power, but those who currently have it are loath to let it go. I think it's best to gradually change things, make people comfortable with the journey you take them on.”
“That's pretty easy for someone of Station to say whilst the Stationless suffer.”
“Hey!” Applekill said, materialising beside Maya. “Maya does come from a Stationless family!”
“I know,” Request said evenly. “But she wasn't Stationless herself. Stationlessness isn't really hereditary, it's based on luck and opportunities. Maya had both.”
“And you had them too, Acolyte Request,” Applekill hissed.
“You know what, I'm not going to fucking apologise for...” Request stopped shouting, pursed her lips, then stood. “I'm going for a walk.”
“Applekill, look what you've–”
“No, don't blame your Spirit.” Request said. “Or yourself. This is about me. I need to think.”
With that, Request left. Maya watched her go, then turned to her Spirit.
“That wasn't helpful,” Maya snapped.
“Neither was a conversation about the Station system.”
Applekill sat in the chair beside Maya. “I need to voice something you don't want to voice.”
“Oh?” Maya asked.
She leant forward, her burnt features creaking with the effort. “Regardless of the Secrecy Order, it's entirely possible none of the Councillors you're investigating had anything to do with Lun's Burst.”
“Well, I know that–”
“Do you? You're putting all this effort and hope into paperwork and interviews. You want one of them to slip up, to tell you something that leads you to someone you can watch burn. And you want it too badly: you're not giving them the option of being innocent, and that's colouring your judgement.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, her throat feeling clogged with rage.
Applekill looked down at Maya's hands. They were balled into fists. “I mean that.”
“So what? So what if I'm angry? Isn't that natural? Isn't that allowable?” Her throat began to burn. She slammed her fist against her table. “Do we have to be some perfect being who none allow to be hateful and hurtful? Must we be perfect?”
“What... what did you just say?” Applekill asked slowly.
“Must I be perfect?” Maya repeated with a frown. Then she started coughing.
The Spirit shook her head, her undamaged skin running pale. “Okay. But–”
Her other Spirit appeared then. It had once been a long, ice-winged lizard, but resurrecting it from Nephilim's ring had changed it. Perhaps Maya's Cyrus Force had overwritten Nephilim and Candle's: now, Mission was a tall warrior covered in thick, encompassing armour, though he had still had scales and a tail.
Maya was in the throes of a coughing fit when he stepped started rubbing her back. “What was that?” he asked Applekill, the
blue eyes that blazed under his helmet wide.
Maya didn't hear the response as her cough worsened, her world becoming violent respiratory explosions. Tears streamed down her face as she fought for control, but it was to no avail: she had to ride the fit out.
“What is it with my anger and coughing?” Maya asked when her coughing passed.
“What do you mean?” Mission asked.
Maya stretched her back, which ached now from the effort of coughing. “Well, I had a similar fit just after Draw’s Folly, didn't I? My defences must get lowered when I'm furious, make me more susceptible to whatever illness is going round.”
“That's exactly what I just said,” Applekill said. At some point during Maya's coughing fit, she had risen from her chair and now stood beside Maya.
“Yes,” Mission said, “it must be that.”
Maya frowned. It felt like there was something the Spirits weren't telling her.
“My point still stands, Maya,” Applekill said, as though sensing this discomfort, “that none of these Councillors might be involved in the attack that killed your Acolytes.”
“Then who did it, Applekill?” Maya sighed. “Do you have some evidence to share?”
“One of them might have let slip about your trip, and a treacherous underling enacted the plan,” Mission said. “Perhaps they did it without realising, letting their subordinate know a small detail that the traitor pieced together. That way, they would not have broken their Secrecy Order. If it happened with enough time to spare, the benefactor of this secret could easily have arranged your death.”
“Don't be angry, Maya,” Applekill said, putting a hand on Maya's arm. “We're looking after you. We want whoever tried to kill you almost as badly as you do: we just don't want you to run down a blind alley, be furious and despondent when you find there's no way ahead.”
“I more fear that if you hunt traitors too ardently, you will make them,” Mission said.
Maya looked between her two Spirits. Their ultimate task, laid at their feet by Nephilim, was to destroy the Disciples. When she'd left that odd underground garden, Maya had imagined that would mean training a few people like her and then running rampant over Moenian, but the years and deaths had pounded that idiotic idea out of her. Now, they were investigating traitors and murderers, wheedling out a Disciple incursion of a different nature, having never even seen Moenian.
She closed her eyes, asked herself what Nephilim would want her to do. He certainly wouldn't approve of her anger, of disagreeing with her Spirits, who were reflections of herself. Nephilim, she decided, would want her to find the real source of the Disciple treachery and burn it out before it became as much of a threat as the Disciples to the north... And he’d want her to do so without making it worse herself.
“You're right,” Maya sighed. “It's more important to find out what really happened. I suppose I was focussing on the Councillors so much because it was easy, offered a simple path to personal revenge. But this isn't about my revenge, is it?”
Both Spirits shook their heads in tandem.
“They remain the most viable candidates to have orchestrated these attacks,” Mission admitted, “so you are not completely in the wrong: only those high in a Station could have planned such an assault. Just ensure your attitude is correct and your mind open. And fear not, as we will help you.”
“Thank you. I need that calming influence.”
Applekill smiled. “That's why we're here, after all.”
“Indeed,” Mission replied.
“Well, that and to help me fight my enemies,” Maya said with a smile.
“Hopefully,” Mission said, “we will soon find some to face.”