The Fractal Prince

shadows, hardly any awareness but what their hosts gave them. They would find tricks to ensure that they were remembered. Promises of immortality and the heavens. And so they prospered for a time, and were called gods.

‘But when the humans made fire and wheels and electricity and started to make immortals of their own, they had to hide in stories. The Goddess. The Mentor. The Shapeshifter. The Trickster. And they knew that when they were found out, they were going to die.

‘Except that, before the Collapse, there came one who set them free. The Prince of Stories. The One in the Jannah. And in the world of uploaded minds, after the Collapse broke all old things, they came into their true power.

‘They made Earth their flesh. Wildcode is a part of them. They move through it like shadows, and hear it when we whisper their names, see it when we write them in the Seals.

‘They told Zoto that they could take his people amongst them, to turn them into stories. But Zoto had a wife, and did not want to live without flesh. So he made a deal. He would allow the Aun to see the world through human eyes again, through the people of Sirr. They would learn the Secret Names and shape their world and stay safe. And in return, they would give the Aun something they had not had for a long time: worship. This is the secret of the Gomelez.’

‘So, how are we going to speak to them?’ Tawaddud asks.

‘Tell them your story,’ Cassar says, ‘a true story. They are always listening.’

He spreads his hands wide, as if embracing the desert.

‘I am Cassar Gomelez,’ he says. ‘I loved my wife so much I turned away from my daughter who bears her face, because I could not stand to look at her for the memories she would bring. I almost gave my city away because I was so afraid to lose it. I made my other daughter carry all my hopes and dreams. I am Cassar Gomelez, and I would speak with the Aun.’

And then they are there, written into the air: the little girl in a mask, the old man in green, and the thing that shifts and glows and dances.

‘What do you seek?’ asks the Princess, the Chimney Princess, the Princess of Stories.

‘A boon,’ Tawaddud says.

‘The price is always the same.’

Tawaddud nods. She sits down on the sand and pulls her robes closer to her against the wind. She smiles at her father and sister. ‘This might take a while,’ she says.

She takes a deep breath and begins.

‘Before Tawaddud makes love to Mr Sen the jinn, she feeds him grapes.’

The story takes a long time to tell, and when Tawaddud finishes, there is a strange, bright star in the sky. The winds have risen, and in the horizon, there is a glare, a tall, burning pillar of flame.

‘We accept your gift,’ the Princess says. ‘What is it that you would ask of us, daughter of Zoto Gomelez?’

‘I ask you to save my people from the Sobornost, from the eternal undeath of the gogols. Rise up against them, like you did before. Set us free, and we will honour you.’

‘It is too late,’ the Soldier says in a gentle, gruff voice. ‘It has already begun.’

The sky is stitched with falling meteors. The new star is now bigger than the moon, and on its surface, Tawaddud sees the rough features of a face, not a kindly Man in the Moon but something older and colder. The earth beneath their feet shakes.

‘They are eating us,’ says the kraken in a small, sing-song voice. ‘We are powerless against them, empty ones, dark things that are many.’

‘It is not such a bad thing to end,’ says the Princess. ‘We are tired and old. And all stories end.’

‘You promised us a boon,’ Tawaddud says. Tears run down her cheeks, mixed with sand. ‘Can you not give us the choice of Zoto again? Can you not take us away?’

There is a boom in the distance, and then a hot wind blows over Tawaddud, filling her eyes and mouth with sand. It can’t end like this, she whispers. It is not supposed to end like this.

Then the Chimney Princess gives her her hand, small, strong fingers around hers, and helps her up.

‘Our brother has returned to us,’ she says. She is smiling behind her mask.

The wind rises again. A man in a dark suit and blue glasses stands before her.

‘There is always a way out,’ he says.

30 THE THIEF AND THE STORIES

We fall and burn in the guberniya dawn.

The white incandescence of the Hunter is gone, and yet I remain. I feel strangely light, like an old man of the sea was gone from my back. I almost start laughing, until I see wildcode twist my hands sapphire claws. The Hunter components are dead, too, taken by Earth’s powers-that-be, drifting around like dead insects.

Perhonen tries to brake with her wings. They catch fire and are torn away.

‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper. ‘I was wrong.’

So was I, the ship says.

The wildcode is everywhere now. The ship’s systems are full of white noise. Its hull twists and curls like burning paper as we fall. Earth reaches for us like a giant’s hand.

The butterflies are all around me. It is hot in the cabin, and they catch fire, tiny candles, flame and dust. I reach for one and close my jagged hand around it.

As the avatars burn, they form a face, the face I saw in the tiger’s vir, a pretty girl, skin like snow.

You get out of everything, Jean, she says. Tell her that I love her. Look after her. For me. Promise.

‘I promise.’

She kisses me, lightly, a butterfly kiss. Then she is gone. Ashes fall on my face. I close my eyes.

In the end, there is a sound that fills the world, and then only black.

They are like serpents of light, all around me, woven into each other so it is hard to say where one ends and another begins. They are old. They wear many faces. And I know them, or a part of me does. The Flower Prince.

The girl from the ancestor vir is there. She takes off her mask and kisses me on the forehead.

Welcome back, brother.

‘Bastards,’ I tell them. ‘Why did you not save Perhonen as well? She deserved it more than I did.’

We could not see her. We can only see ourselves. There is a grief of ages in her voice.

‘Damn it. It’s not fair.’

When was it ever fair? It doesn’t matter. We will go back to Father and be with him for ever.

The old thing inside me wants to say yes. To be with the Prince of Stories again. But something pulls me back. Perhonen. A promise.

I keep my promises.

Whatever the serpent things are, I am something else. I remember reading a book in a cell. I remember a door opening. That’s when I was born, out of the crystal stopper. A creature made from La Bouchon de cristal, a boy from the desert and an old god.

Come with us. Come with us, brother.

‘My name is Jean le Flambeur,’ I say. ‘And we have work to do.’