‘The proper kind for the trader’s tongue, which makes one of us sound educated and I suppose that’s something.’
‘Oh, I’ll show you something!’ She drew out her corporal’s sword, giving him a hard push on the chest to clear the weapon, then hammered the pommel down on the bartop. The weapon bounced up from her hand, the edge scoring deep across Hellian’s right ear. She swore, reached up and saw her hand come away red with blood. ‘Now look what you made me do!’
‘And I suppose I also made you invade our empire, and this city, and-’
‘Don’t be an idiot, you ain’t that important. It was the winged monkeys did that.’
The barkeep’s thin, overlong face twisted slightly as he arched a single brow.
Hellian turned to her corporal. ‘What kinda sword you using, fool? One that don’t work right, that’s what kind, I’d say.’
‘Aye, Sergeant.
‘Sorry, Sergeant.’
‘Aye and sorry don’t cut it with me, Corporal. Now get that sword outa my sight.’
‘Did you hear it coming?’ another one of her soldiers asked.
‘What? What’s that supposed to mean, Boatsnort?’
‘Uh, my name’s-’
‘I just told you your name!’
‘Nothing, Sergeant. I didn’t mean nothing.’
The barkeep cleared his throat. ‘Now, if you are done with jabbering amongst yourselves, you can kindly leave. As I said before, this tavern is dry-’,
‘They don’t make taverns dry,’ Hellian said.
‘I’m sure you didn’t say that quite right-’
‘Corporal, you hearing all this?’
‘Yes.
‘Aye.’
‘Good. String this fool up. By his nostrils. From that beam right there.’
‘By his nostrils, Sergeant?’
‘That you again, Snortface?’
Hellian smiled as the corporal used four arms to grab the barkeep and drag him across the counter. The man was suddenly nowhere near as laconic as he was a moment ago. Sputtering, clawing at the hands gripping him, he shouted, ‘Wait! Wait!’
Everyone halted.
‘In the cellar,’ the man gasped.
‘Give my corporal directions and proper ones,’ Hellian said, so very satisfied now, except for her dribbling ear, but oh, if any of her soldiers got out of line she could pick the scab and bleed all over them and wouldn’t they feel just awful about it and then do exactly what she wanted them to do, ‘which is guard the door.’
‘Sergeant?’
‘You heard me, guard the door, so we’re not disturbed.’
‘Who are we on the lookout for?’ Snivelnose asked. Ain’t nobody-’
‘The captain, who else? She’s probably still after us, damn her.’
Memories, Icarium now understood, were not isolated things. They did not exist within high-walled compartments in a mind. Instead, they were like the branches of a tree, or perhaps a continuous mosaic on a floor that one could play light over, illuminating patches here and there.
Yet, and he knew this as well, for others that patch of light was vast and bright, encompassing most of a life, and although details might be blurred, scenes made hazy and uncertain with time, it was, nevertheless, a virtual entirety. And from this was born a sense of a self.
Which he did not possess and perhaps had never possessed. And in the grip of such ignorance, he was as malleable as a child. To be used; to be, indeed, abused. And many had done so, for there was power in Icarium, far too much power.
Such exploitation was now at an end. All of Taralack Veed’s exhortations were as wind in the distance, and he was not swayed. The Gral would be Icarium’s last companion.
He stood in the street, all of his senses awakened to the realization that he knew this place, this modest patch of the mosaic grey with promise. And true illumination was finally at hand. The measuring of time, from this moment and for ever onward. A life begun again, with no risk of losing his sense of self.
My hands have worked here. In this city, beneath this city.
And now awaits me, to be awakened.
And when I have done that, I will begin anew. A life, a host of tesserae to lay down one by one.
He set out, then, for the door.
The door into his machine.
He walked, unmindful of those scurrying in his wake, of the figures and soldiers moving out of his path. He heard but held no curiosity for the sounds of fighting, the violence erupting in the streets to either side, the detonations as of lightning although this dawn was breaking clear and still. He passed beneath diffused shadows cast down by billowing smoke from burning buildings, wagons and barricades. He heard screams and shouts but did not seek out where they came from, even to lend succour as he would normally have done. He stepped over bodies in the street.
He walked alongside an ash-laden greasy canal for a time, then reached a bridge and crossed over into what was clearly an older part of the city. Down another street to an intersection, whereupon he swung left and continued on.
There were more people here in this quarter-with the day growing bolder and all sounds of fighting a distant roar to the west-yet even here the people seemed dazed. None of the usual conversations, the hawkers crying their wares, beasts pulling loaded carts. The drifting smoke wafted down like an omen, and the citizens wandered through it as if lost.
He drew nearer the door. Of course, it was nothing like a door in truth. More like a wound, a breach. He could feel its power stir to life, for as he sensed it so too did it sense him.
Icarium then slowed. A wound, yes. His machine was wounded. Its pieces had been twisted, shifted out of position. Ages had passed since he had built it, so he should not be surprised. Would it still work? He was no longer so sure.
This is mine. I must make it right, no matter the cost.
1 will have this gift. 1 will have it.
He started forward once more.
The house that had once disguised this nexus of the machine had collapsed into ruin and no efforts had been made to clear the wreckage. There was a man standing before it.
After a long moment, Icarium realized that he recognized this man. He had been aboard the ships, and the name by which he had been known was Taxilian.
As Icarium walked up to him, Taxilian, his eyes strangely bright, bowed and stepped back. ‘This, Icarium,’ he said, ‘is your day.’
My day? Yes, my first day.
Lifestealer faced the ruin.
A glow was now rising from somewhere inside, shafts slanting up between snapped timbers and beams, lancing out in spears from beneath stone and brick. The glow burgeoned, and the world beneath him seemed to tremble. But no, that was no illusion-buildings groaned, shuddered. Splintering sounds, shutters rattling as from a gust of wind.
Icarium drew a step closer, drawing a dagger.
Thunder sounded beneath him, making the cobbles bounce in puffs of dust. Somewhere, in the city, structures began to break apart, as sections and components within them stirred into life, into inexorable motion. Seeking to return to a most ancient pattern.
More thunder, as buildings burst apart.
Columns of dust corkscrewed skyward.
