The Light of Heaven

launch before cutting the tow cables that held the Belle to the Vigilant.

As the cut ends splashed into the water, he followed them overboard, and hauled himself aboard the launch. He took up the launch's oars, and began rowing as far away from the noose and the Vigilant's yard-arms as he could get. As Crowe pulled further from the Vigilant, no bolts came his way. Instead, a bloom of fire sprouted from a hatch, rising to set the mainsail and mizzen staysail afire. Smoke was pouring from the Vigilant's hatches and ports as she heeled away from him. Crowe only regretted what he had done for a moment. No man deserved to witness the horror that he had. Even if the Vigilant had been extremely lucky and reached the Isle, he didn't want to contemplate the chance that any man could go through what had scarred him so horribly. With his arms straining against the pull of the rough seas, he made for the Belle.

The Vigilant lurched out of his view, and he wondered whether anyone would miss it back in Allantia, because it was surely doomed. By the time he had climbed aboard the Belle, the Vigilant had gone.

Two Years Later

The Theatre of Heaven was at the heart of Miramas, both literally and in the minds and thoughts of the citizens. The inner city was filled with columned libraries and hemispherical playhouses, but all paled in comparison to the Theatre of Heaven. It was a full amphitheatre, large enough to hold the average market town within its circumference. That wouldn't have been impressive enough for the proud citizens of what they felt to be the most beautiful city in Pontaine, if not for its position.

There hadn't been an area wide enough to construct such an edifice in the centre of the city, and none of the existing artistic buildings could be sacrificed. A narrow tower had been built instead, rising over a hundred and fifty feet, and just wide enough to contain four intertwined staircases allowing entrance and exit to the Theatre, which was then built at the top of the tower. The amphitheatre spread outwards and a little further upwards, until the whole structure resembled a delicate wine glass. It provided shade for the streets below in summer and shelter from rain the rest of the time.

Visitors from Vos or Allantia were often seen to marvel at the architecture, and the theatre's builders knew that architects in those nations were practically tearing their hair out as they tried to deduce how it actually stayed up. The answer was simple, of course; the Guilds of magic had woven spells to reinforce the stonework and help it resist the efforts of gravity.

Dai Batsen was neither impressed nor unimpressed by the structure. It was merely a place, and he had never found himself able to get worked up about a mere place. A man of average height, and for the moment wearing mousy brown hair, Batsen had wrapped his more than averagely athletic build in the pastel trews, tunic and robes of a moderately prosperous citizen of Miramas; the sort who had some money to spare that could be spent on going to the opera on a fine summer's day.

He paid at the base of the tower and ascended to take his seat at the Theatre of Heaven. It was only four rows back from the stage, and gave him a clear view of the two men, directly opposite, who seemed more interested in the contents of a scroll they were poring over than in the performance of the nude and painted players on the central stage. One of the pair was a rough-hewn type with greying hair tied back with a bow in the fashion of sailors out of Allantia. The other, making more of an effort not to look anywhere near the stage, radiated the arrogance of a Final Faith official.

The opera was erotic, the players the most beautiful examples of humanity, but it didn't stir anything in Batsen. Not even boredom. He simply ignored it. He didn't feel any need to cloak himself yet — even if they looked across, they had never seen him before, had no idea who he was. He was just another face in the crowd. He was content to watch the opera without really seeing it, mostly concentrating on being alert for any movement from the two men across from him.

In the interval, the two men exchanged a glance and got up. Batsen stayed where he was for a few moments, as they looked around to be sure no-one was following them. They descended into a busy stairwell, and Batsen immediately rose and made for the nearest staircase to him. The theatre was well-filled today, and it seemed like half the population of Miramas had come to see this performance. All manner of people, all wearing their finest robes and tunics, were circulating in search of privies or refreshments, but it was easy enough to steer them out of his way with a flick of the mind. Where everyone else bumped and jostled against each other, Batsen passed through the crowd as if it just wasn't there. None of the people looked at him, or showed any sign that they even noticed the person who they so neatly just avoided bumping into.

In the stem of the tower, four wide staircases with marble banisters wound around and through each other in an eye-straining helix, and Batsen immediately saw the two men again on the opposite side of the central shaft, a little lower down. Satisfied, he reached out with his mind, and spread the fingers of his hands, drawing on the threads to bend the light around him so that no-one would see him leap across the central shaft. Thickening the air below him so he would travel further without falling, Batsen landed, catlike, on his feet three steps behind the two men.

Batsen's elbow slammed into the back of the older man's head, just behind the ear, and he started to sag. Even before the second man, or anyone else traversing the stairs, could turn to look, Batsen had grasped the banister and let the elemental magic flow into it. The section next to the crumpling old sailor shattered into fragments just in time to allow him to topple through it. There were several screams, but only one ended with a wet slapping sound far below.

The nearest people looked down into the central shaft, gesturing and exclaiming wildly. They all seemed to be assuming it was an accident; a terrible shame that a piece of marble must have had a crack in it. Only the second man was looking around, his thin face pale, and limp blonde hair flying, and Batsen knew that the man was looking for him. Batsen marched forward, planting a hand on the startled man's chest and walking him back into an alcove behind a statue of one of Miramas' most famous playwrights.

'Hand it over,' Batsen ordered.

'They'll see you! You'll never get away.'

'All they see is an entertaining accident that's giving them a better thrill than anything on stage. Now, hand over the scroll. I won't ask again, and I will be leaving with it.'

The man raised his head, looking haughtily at Batsen. 'You've made a great mistake, heretic. You have no idea who you're dealing with!'

'I'm dealing with a minor functionary of the Final Faith and, I might add, one who seems far too reluctant to become one with his god.'

The man swallowed. 'If I do — ?'

The unasked question was obvious to Batsen. Would he spare the man?

'Your journey to Kerberos will be quick and painless.'

Batsen held his hand out. The man was foolish; he grabbed Batsen's wrist and twisted it, shoving the assassin aside. He never made it out of the alcove, as the statue suddenly turned, under Batsen's control, pinning him to the wall with enough force that Batsen heard ribs crack. Batsen slipped a hand under the statue's arm, extracting a tight bundle of scrolls from a poacher's pocket hidden in the folds of the man's tunic. '

'You'll burn for this!' the man hissed.

'You first,' Batsen promised.

In the folds of the man's tunic tongues of flame started to take hold.

The man twisted, still pinned by the statue, trying to beat out the fire. The flames spread rapidly, consuming flesh and bone. More screams could be heard from up and down the staircases, as people saw the flames and heard the tortured screaming of the burning man.

Batsen had already crossed to the central shaft in three long steps, and stepped off into thin air. Rather than cloak himself from view, he concentrated on the threads of elemental magic, drawing up the air itself to thicken beneath him and slow his descent. The uprush of air also had the effect of blasting aside the corpse and the people surrounding it. While they struggled to stay upright, as if trying to walk into a hurricane, Batsen touched down and